


What We Talk About When We Talk About Blood

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Averno [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff everywhere, Living Dead Girl Abigail Hobbs, M/M, PTSD Will, Post-Finale, Pretentious fucker Hannibal, Sassy fucker Will, Slow Burn, Weird theremin analogies, basically how these things go, love among the cannibals, no but like reeeeally sloooooow burn, now with art, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:24:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 43,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal can't take Will with him when he runs away, so Will has to play innocent when the FBI finds him half-dead.  And then he has to go on playing normal for a long time afterwards.  Hannibal and Will spin out the days until they can meet up again however they can manage to stay in touch under the radar. A long-distance slow-burn Scheherazade love story of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [О чём мы говорим, когда говорим о крови](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6828898) by [Setchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Setchi/pseuds/Setchi)



> [OMG there is ART NOW.](http://cosmiccluck.tumblr.com/post/157436151442/oh-hey-its-a-fanart-for-damnslippyplanets-fic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Their plan had come together hurriedly, he’d been semi-conscious and in horrendous pain, and he’s not at all sure he remembers how it goes. Or that following it would be a good idea if he did remember._
> 
> _But he remembers the first step and that’s all he needs right now. If he can’t get the first step right, the rest of it doesn’t matter._
> 
> _First, he has to convince Jack._

_beep… beep… beep…_

The sound calls Will back from somewhere dark and warm and he swims slowly up through the fog. Even before he’s quite remembered where he is, it feels familiar. This isn’t the first time he’s woken up in a hospital bed, taped and stitched, surrounded by whirring and beeping. It’s not even the second time. How many times does this have to happen before you accept that you are not making good life choices?

His head hurts. His everything hurts. He hears murmuring voices and footsteps but he takes his time opening his eyes. He doesn’t remember everything yet but he remembers that what he says and does next is going to be very important. There’s a lot riding on him. He tries to marshal his blurred recollections into some kind of order.

There was the fall and the sickening crunch of the landing. Lancing pain and blackness. Hands running over him quickly and un-gently, taking stock of his injuries. Hannibal’s voice: “I can’t take you with me. You won’t make it.” Their plan had come together hurriedly, he’d been semi-conscious and in horrendous pain, and he’s not at all sure he remembers how it goes. Or that following it would be a good idea if he did remember. 

But he remembers the first step and that’s all he needs right now. If he can’t get the first step right, the rest of it doesn’t matter. 

First, he has to convince Jack.

He blinks against the bright glare of the hospital light, and in a moment someone turns the light down. There are nurses, eventually a doctor, and they tell him things about his condition that he doesn’t fully process beyond the fact that it sounds like he’s probably going to live. He doesn’t miss that it’s “probably” and not “definitely”, although the words used to pretty it up are nicer.

Will’s more interested in the guard sitting by the door. He’s not a hospital security guard. FBI. There to protect him, or to protect other people from him? He’s not handcuffed to the hospital bed, so that’s a start. On the other hand he’s pretty sure that if he tried to get up right now he’d pass out before he made it four steps, so restraining him might be entirely beside the point. He hears the guard on the phone speaking low to someone - reporting in on him?

He decides that for now it’s enough to know that Freddie Lounds won’t be getting any pictures of him while he’s under armed guard. It’s a small silver lining. 

He doesn’t really notice that things are going swimmy in front of his eyes in a way that they shouldn’t do, or that one of the beeps has turned high-pitched and insistent, until the door flies open, there are more people in the room, why are there so many people? It’s getting even darker and he tries to tell them that they don’t have to turn the lights down that much, but it’s too late, the bed is dissolving under him.

He lets go and dissolves back into darkness, wondering disjointedly if Abigail will be there to greet him. 

When he surfaces again, Will’s mind is a little clearer and he’s either still alive, or the afterlife is a private hospital room with an armed guard. It’s a different room than before but he only knows that because the window is now on a different wall. Otherwise it’s still just Generic Hospital Room #7, monitors and beeping and tubes and a vague smell of disinfectant. It doesn’t surprise Will to note that his hospital room is not an overflowing bower of flowers, balloons, get-well cards, and teddy bears. Hell, it probably wouldn’t have been that even before he’d been involved in a prison break.

He tries to speak and only manages a croak. How long has it been since he used his voice? He wets his lips and tries again. “Hey. Can I have some water?”

His guard eyes him warily and doesn’t respond. Not a great sign. But he does open the door and speak to someone in the hallway, perhaps calling a nurse. Will gives up on making inroads with the guard and counts the ceiling tiles until the medical personnel arrive. It’s hard to focus. He loses count more than once.

He’s unhooked from one or two of the machines blinking and beeping at him, and allowed to sit up enough to try sipping at a little water. Everyone is professional and polite, and only someone as practiced at Will at avoiding eye contact would notice how well they are doing it to him. The redheaded nurse is focusing on his hairline and all her sentences are just a little too clipped. The blond nurse is intent on the screens at all times, and if he absolutely has to look at Will he looks at his hands. The doctor is brisk and efficient, she asks all the right questions, she explains that he’s been moved from the ICU now that he’s more stable, and she looks at him as glancingly as she can manage.

They blow off his questions about Molly and Walter, and about how long he’s been in the hospital, with vague and unhelpful answers. He suppresses a wild impulse to yell “BOO” and watch them jump.

They make sure he’s stable and then they get out of the room as if there’s a pack of dogs at their heels. They’re terrified of something. He wouldn’t want to place a bet on whether it’s him, or Jack Crawford’s instructions about how to interact with him. 

It doesn’t take Jack long to show up; he must have had an order to be alerted the instant Will wakes up and stays awake. He looks tired and rumpled and furious. He stands outside the door for a moment conferring with the doctor before he comes in, relieves the guard, and drags his chair over to Will’s bedside. There’s just the one chair in the room. No one’s expecting Will Graham to have a bevy of visiting family and friends. He can't blame them.

"Molly?" His voice has returned but it's still hoarse.

"She's recuperating and she's safe. Walter too."

"Will you tell me where?"

"No, so don't ask and make me refuse. I did tell her we'd found you and you're stabilizing, and that we’ll let her know when you can have messages."

Will tries for a smile and winces as it pulls at whatever is happening in his mouth, a welter of stitches. "I bet she was thrilled to hear from you."

"Your wife has a mouth on her," Jack acknowledges. "And I'm apparently not her favorite person right now."

"I’m probably not, either. Give her my love, if she doesn't hang up on you first."

Silence settles in the room again and Will finally breaks it. "Hannibal?"

Jack's gaze is steady and hard to read. "Still missing. If it were anyone else we'd be saying presumed dead but you’ll understand that I have my doubts. Dolarhyde's dead. What can you tell me?"

So there it is. He can play fuzzy and it won't even be playing, he does have the distinct sensation that bits of his memory are scrambled. But he can't just have no memory and he can't have his real memories either. He wants to take a sip of water to play for time but Jack will see through that. 

"It's still coming back together. Dolarhyde wrecked the transport. I think I hit my head. They took me with them but I was pretty out of it. Things turned ugly at the house."

"I would say so. The lab's going to be busy for days working up that scene."

Will closes his eyes. This is too intimate a memory to share with Jack looking at him, even the false version he’s about to tell. "There was a fight. Dolarhyde and Hannibal. Dolarhyde stabbed me. I think he was trying to rattle Hannibal. I had to fight back." He takes a long steadying breath. Blood in the moonlight. Blade through flesh easy as slicing through shadows. Copper and salt in his mouth. Hannibal’s eyes. 

"Dolarhyde went down first and we kept fighting. Hannibal and I. I slipped at the edge. All that blood. Took him down with me. I blacked out when we hit that ledge and when I woke up your team was there."

"And you didn't see what happened to Hannibal."

"No. He might have kept falling into the water."

"Or he might have hit the ledge too and walked away. Left you for dead."

"Maybe. I'm sorry, Jack. That's all I've got right now. Ask me more in a couple of days, I'll try to remember."

Jack stands up briskly. He's got what he came for and he doesn’t seem particularly surprised at how useless it is. “We'll need a more formal statement later. Rest for now. You'll have an agent with you around the clock for protection."

"Whose protection?"

"Everyone's. It's an order, not a suggestion. Get some sleep. You look like hell."

Will nods and watches Jack go. A nurse comes back in to give him a tablet of something that almost immediately starts to soothe the throbbing in various parts of his body, and he closes his eyes again. That didn't go too badly.

Jack didn't believe a word of it but Will didn't really expect him to. Jack will be on incredibly thin ice after Hannibal's escape, Dolarhyde's extrajudicial killing, Will's near-death. His work, and the resources of the FBI for any personal vendettas he may wish to undertake, are all Jack has left now and he can’t lose them. He'll choose to accept the story Will gives him if Will can make it good enough to get them both out of hot water. 

Jack will never trust Will again but that doesn't matter now. He'll probably keep looking for Hannibal for a little personal vengeance even if he eventually signs off on a "presumed dead" status. But that's a problem for the future.

Right now, Will needs sleep and time to heal, and he needs to not screw up, and he needs to walk the tightrope well enough to stay out of jail and out of the institution. And he needs to get his hands on a copy of Tattle Crime to see if Hannibal’s left him a message.

Everything else can wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He squints back up at the sun, which hasn’t moved since be arrived, because things don’t have to change here in the world in his head unless he wants them to. Or unless he’s completely losing his grip again. Today he’s got a grip on himself, more or less, and he wants the sun where it is, big and warm and bright._

Something unpleasant is happening but it’s happening to someone else, someone outside the river. Eventually Will’s going to have to go back and be that someone else but for now he’s staying put. Reality is overrated. 

Things make sense by the river. Things are easy. He’s leaning back on both hands, face tipped up to the warm sun, listening to the burble and splash of water on rocks. He’s not in any pain. He wonders, if he could see himself from the outside, if he would have his scars here. 

He’s aware of Abigail a few feet away, cross-legged and barefoot, sun-browned, intent on weaving a flower crown out of flowers that would look normal if you didn’t look too closely. If you look at them carefully you might notice their colors are just slightly unlike those found in nature, their shapes just a little too sharp and elongated, a few too many thorns on their stems. 

Abigail doesn’t seem to have to worry about the thorns; they avoid piercing her as if they love her. Will doesn’t know what surreal corner of his brain those flowers grow in, but he’s quite certain that they do in fact love her. 

He’s less certain about himself; he thinks the thorns might bleed him if he took the crown from her hands. He’s not entirely sure the thorns wouldn’t bite right through his skin (like the knife through Francis Dolarhyde’s soft parts, like sliding into a lover, sweet and easy, the thought’s there and gone before he can form it consciously but it leaves him dizzy) and drink him dry.

Will and Abigail share a companionable silence for a while, broken only by the occasional twitch that Will can’t help when some stray bit of sensation breaks through from whatever is happening to the other him, the one out in the world. 

Eventually Abigail runs out of the flowers she’s using for the base of the crown. They’re white, or maybe they’re silver. They seem to shift color unnervingly whenever Will looks straight at them. She sets her handiwork aside for the moment and cocks her head to one side, observing Will. “You’ve been here a long time today. You must really hate whatever they’re doing.”

He squints back up at the sun, which hasn’t moved since be arrived, because things don’t have to change here in the world in his head unless he wants them to. Or unless he’s completely losing his grip again. Today he’s got a grip on himself, more or less, and he wants the sun where it is, big and warm and bright. “They’re taking out a tube or a drain or something. I try not to listen to the details. It’s never anything good and knowing doesn’t make it any better.”

She makes a grossed-out face and he smiles despite his best attempt not to.

“Sounds like a good thing, though. Less stuff sticking out of you is better, right?”

“I feel like the bar for what constitutes ‘better’ in my life has gotten extraordinarily low in the past few weeks.”

“You’re not dead. You’re not in jail--”

“Yet.”

“--yet,” she goes on implacably. Abigail is supremely unbothered by the things that keep Will up at night. What does she care? As long as Will’s alive, her life in his imagination doesn’t change much with his circumstances. He can and will spin her any fantasies she wants, even from a cell. Hannibal taught him that. “Molly and Walter are safe. Hannibal’s alive--”

“We don’t know that. They won’t let me have the papers.”

“We’d know if he were dead.” Her faith is unshakable and Will wonders how it exists within him when he feels so very, very shakable himself. “I’m just saying, things aren’t so bad. You’re getting better. You can get out of here and go home and figure out what to do next.”

He eyes Abigail sharply at that. They haven’t talked about the choice he’s going to have to face at some point if he makes it that long. The go-back-to-your-life-or-burn-it-to-the-ground choice. Sometimes she seems to pick things up without him telling her, and sometimes not, so he can’t tell how loaded her statement is. Maybe there’s nothing more to it than there appears to be. Maybe she just wants him to get out of the hospital and go home. Maybe she’s more sure than he is of what that means.

“Rumor has it I can start physical therapy in a few days. And then if I’m very, very good I might get released at some point. Assuming Jack Crawford doesn’t decide to keep me under armed guard forever.”

“When do you have to talk to him again?”

“Tomorrow. I get today off from being interrogated so the medical establishment can torture me instead.” 

Abigail laughs. “You sound like a terrible patient.”

“I’ve been told as much in the past. No one tells me that here because that would require actually talking to me. Jack’s still got them terrified of letting something slip around me. God help me, I’d almost welcome a visit from Freddie at this point. At least I could count on her to slip me some information if I made it worth her while.”

_Mr. Graham? Will?_

“Shit.” Something’s tugging at him. He’s being called back, painfully, to that place where he doesn’t want to be. Out where there are choices and consequences and a universe whose laws do not bend to charm and protect what he loves.

Abigail’s used to his abrupt departures by now. She flaps a hand at him, dismissive. “Go. I need to find more of these pink roses anyway, they sing the funniest little song when the wind blows over them. I’ll show you next time. Shoo.”

The river breaks apart and blows away like fog scurrying ahead of the wind, and he’s back behind beige institutional walls, a throbbing heat in his abdomen where something he’d prefer not to think about must have just finished happening to him. 

He feels clammy and shaky. One of the endless rotation of nurses who won’t meet his eye is unwrapping a blood pressure cuff from his arm and easing him back into lying down. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He doesn’t think “I skipped out on the procedure to visit my dead daughter who lives in a forest in my head” is going to make anyone warm up to him much, so he just mumbles something noncommittal. It seems to get the job done. 

She fusses with some equipment near his head. “You’re doing much better, you know. You’ll be out of here and home in no time.”

“Home.”

She doesn’t know him well enough to read his vocal inflections but something in the way he says the word seems to give her pause. Maybe she can sense the echoing loneliness behind the words, his utter confusion about where and with whom his home might be. She drops her attempts at conversation and finishes up with him quickly, and then she’s out the door.

Will takes inventory of himself. Arms, legs, fingers, toes, all still accounted for. He seems to be down to only a couple of bits of medical paraphernalia strapped to his body, which gives him some hope he might be let out of bed someday. There’s still an armed guard at the door so he’s not going anywhere, but it’s nice to imagine his feet might get to touch the floor again at some point.

He passes some time looking out the window, trying to get a rough sense of how high up he is based on the sliver of the world he can see. He makes a half-hearted attempt to engage Agent Carl in conversation, which goes about as well as it had with Agent Luis and Agent Anna.

Eventually, running out of excuses, Will closes his eyes and tries to plan through all the possible paths tomorrow’s conversation with Jack could take, until he finally fades away into sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He thinks the story will suffice. Maybe. With Jack's willful blindness and with a little luck. Surely by now the universe owes Will Graham just a little bit of luck._
> 
> _Jack doesn’t say much. He takes a few desultory notes but mostly just listens, expressionless. He asks a few questions. Nothing too pointed. Nothing he wants answered too badly. Will thinks maybe he can feel the framework of an unspoken agreement falling into place around them. The sort of agreement two people who have nothing left to lose, and no shreds of a friendship left to save, might form in order to get out of each other’s sight once and for all. Will should feel sorrier about this than he does. He just feels exhausted._

Jack arrives at ten a.m. sharp, looking a bit better rested, and with three cups of coffee. Actual coffee, not the murky hot water that passes for it in the confines of the hospital. Will considers lunging at him and swiping a cup out of his hand, and he might do it if he weren’t worried he’d fall flat on his face instead.

Jack hands today’s guard one of the coffee cups and shoos him out of the room so he can use the lone chair. He hands one of the two remaining cups to Will as he says, “I cleared it with your doctor. You’re only allowed the one cup, so make the most of it.”

Will inhales deeply and closes his eyes in an ecstasy that’s only half-joking and responds, “I’m seriously considering kissing you.”

Jack lets out a small amused snort of laughter and for about twelve seconds, they’re friends again or at least friendly. Then the moment passes, but at least it leaves Will with real coffee. He takes a sip and feels it burn all the way down his throat, hot and bitter, the first thing that’s tasted good in days.

Jack pulls the chair over to the bedside, sits down, and waits.

Will waits, too. He knows all the same games Jack knows and a few others besides, and he’s got nowhere to be. He can wait all day. He sips at his coffee again, rests his gaze at a random spot on Jack’s shoulder, and doesn’t say a word. 

“Okay, Will.” It’s a tacit admission that Jack knows perfectly well he can’t pull interrogation tricks on him. “You’re looking better. Is any of your memory coming back? I’d like to know anything else you can tell me about what happened.”

“Are you asking me as a witness or a suspect?”

“I’m asking you as the only person who appears to have survived a fight with two very strong serial killers. It must have been an interesting evening.”

“If I’m not a suspect then I want you to stop treating me like one. I want some privacy, and I want to know what’s going on in the world, a newspaper if you won’t let me have a television. And I want to talk to my wife.” He keeps his voice light and steady and doesn’t let it break on the last word even though it wants to. He hasn’t really been able to think about Molly head-on yet. He keeps flinching away when he tries. He has options when he gets out of here but none of them seem to end well for Molly, and she deserves so much better. She always did.

Jack pretends to consider Will's terms, but they both knew this conversation was coming, and he doesn’t pretend for long. “We can move your guard outside the door, and I’ll get you on the phone with Molly. If I can keep her from hanging up on me when I call to make the arrangements. But she’s going to be under strict instructions about what she can talk about, and your newspaper is going to have some articles removed.”

Will feels a stab of anger and doesn’t bother hiding it, even though he expected this, even though it doesn’t affect his real objective. It's the patronizing tone that chafes. “What are you trying to keep away from me, Jack?”

“Believe it or not, I’m trying to protect you. There’s a lot of press and a lot of it focuses on your history with Hannibal. You don’t want to see the headlines.”

“I can imagine. Fine. I don’t need to see that stuff, I just want to know something about what’s happening in the world. I’m going crazy shut up in here.”

“Deal. I’ll make the arrangements when I leave here. Now talk to me, Will. What do you remember?”

“It’s still a mess, Jack. I’ve lost some time. Not sure if it’s coming back.”

Jack’s implacable. “Try.”

Will nods and sips at the coffee again. “I remembered a little more. Dolarhyde took out the caravan. I didn’t see how; I was in the back of the van. Just heard a car coming up fast alongside, and then shots and we were all over the road. He shot everyone, I think, but I hit my head pretty hard. I missed some of it. They were talking, Hannibal and Dolarhyde. Arguing about whether to kill me too. In the end they decided to take me along. They knocked me out and put me in the back of one of the cars. I think I was supposed to be their getting-to-know-each-other dinner.” He lets his face curl into a snarl, half-fear, half-anger. It’s not entirely an untruth; he can imagine that night ending with him on a serving platter if things had played out a little differently. Hannibal would have felt a little guilty about not having the ingredients on hand to do him proper justice, but he’d have gotten over it quickly enough.

Jack’s watching Will's face work, not betraying how much he believes or doesn’t. Will can’t help him spin the part of the story about how Dolarhyde found the caravan in the first place; Jack’s going to have to make that up on his own. He’s a creative enough man to send Will as bait to catch the Chesapeake Ripper; he’ll figure something out.

Will takes a breath and focuses on the part of the story he can spin. He has a few things on his side. The head trauma. The fact that he’s almost certain Dolarhyde hadn’t had the chance to hit “record” on the camera. And that Hannibal would have taken some of the most damning evidence with him before leaving. And mostly, the fact that he knows Jack wants to be given a story he can run with. He doesn’t have to be perfect; he just has to be good enough.

In the fairytale he spins for Jack, he’s an innocent. Or at least he acted only in defense of his life, which is as close to innocent as anyone Hannibal infects with his touch ever gets. He woke in the cliff house to the sound of a gunshot, doesn’t have any idea what had transpired before then. Had been attacked. Had fought back. Hadn’t really known what he was doing, half out of his mind, terrified, dizzy, fighting for his life. ( _Hadn’t relished the slick of blood against his skin. Hadn’t, oh certainly hadn’t, been more alive in those moments than he had ever been in all the years of his life before then, something savage thrumming beneath his skin that he can still feel there now, something he's not sure he can put back to sleep now that it's awake._ ) Hadn’t realized how close they were to the edge, when Dolarhyde went down. Had slipped, fallen ( _flown, oh, how we flew for a moment there_ ), grabbed at Hannibal out of reflex, ended up taking him down too. Crashed. Passed out with the sounds of waves and seagulls in his ears. Known nothing more until the jostling of the rescue team sliding him onto a stretcher. Something acrid in his nostrils. Smoke? He still isn't sure what that was. Maybe something imagined, neurons damaged in his fall firing at random, trying to make sense out of chaos.

He thinks the story will suffice. Maybe. With Jack's willful blindness and with a little luck. Surely by now the universe owes Will Graham just a little bit of luck.

Jack doesn’t say much. He takes a few desultory notes but mostly just listens, expressionless. He asks a few questions. Nothing too pointed. Nothing he wants answered too badly. Will thinks maybe he can feel the framework of an unspoken agreement falling into place around them. The sort of agreement two people who have nothing left to lose, and no shreds of a friendship left to save, might form in order to get out of each other’s sight once and for all. Will should feel sorrier about this than he does. He just feels exhausted.

When Jack leaves he speaks for a few minutes to the agent at the door, who then stays parked outside the door. Will’s not getting out, and no one Jack Crawford doesn’t approve is getting in, but for the first time in days he has something approaching solitude. It’s heavenly. He closes his eyes and doesn’t sleep or visit Abigail or do anything except enjoy the quiet for several long minutes.

Eventually the agent of the day comes back in with a promise to provide a phone after some arrangements can be made. Will takes this as code for “as soon we get everything in order to tap the line”, which he was expecting, so he doesn’t fuss. But he does take the stack of newspapers, one of everything in the hospital gift shop, as requested. They’re a mess of clipped-out articles, photos and sidebars, leaving a lacework something closer to a child’s cut-out paper snowflake than actual news.

He thanks Agent Whoever It Is Today and enjoys the sound of the door shutting behind him. He sifts through the papers slowly, with all the time and patience in the world, doing his best imitation of someone who just wants to know what he missed while he was hovering near death. He doesn’t thumb through to see which papers are there. He just hopes.

He’s not really reading anything his eyes skim over on the pages, but he does take note of the percentage of each page that Jack has had redacted. It looks like he and Hannibal are less of a story in the national papers, not front-page news, at least not anymore. He wonders what the papers looked like the first day Hannibal Lecter escaped. He makes a vague note of headlines. Politics. Natural disasters. Something in his heart clenches a bit at the sports page, an article on baseball - Molly. But he keeps going.

As he moves into more local papers, torturously slowly, more of the paper vanishes into the abyss. A local escaped serial killer and his local gravely injured possible-murder-husband are reliable interest generators. It occurs to Will that even if all he does is go home, set Molly free, set himself free from Hannibal, keep his head down and stay alone and out of trouble for the rest of his life, his life is effectively over. He’s never, ever going to live any of this down. The papers shake in his hands but he keeps going, slow and steady.

He finds it near the bottom of the stack. They really had gotten him one of everything in the gift shop. He stops the smile before it can reach his lips. He wasn’t sure they’d do it. He wasn’t sure the hospital would have it. Apparently they’re in the business of keeping all sorts of trash for people who need escapism.

The whole front page is gone and Will groans inwardly, damning Freddie Lounds. She’s making good money off his life, apparently, because there’s more paper missing than present. He can infer from what's missing that it’s practically a Cannibal Escape Special Issue.

But what he needs is still there. He flips casually to the classifieds, casts a nonchalant eye down the page. Sees what he’s looking for. 

Their code phrase and a phone number encoded in an alphabet string. Short and simple. Had to be, to be sure Will would remember what the hell he was supposed to be looking for, as close to passing out as he’d been. He doesn't understand the rest, what Hannibal's added that wasn't in the plan: _Amor condusse noi ad una morte_. Hannibal knows perfectly well he doesn't speak Italian. Pretentious asshole. He gets "amor." He gets "morte." The rest...who knows? He's pretty sure there's no way to ask for an Italian-English dictionary without rousing suspicion, so that's going to have to wait. Hopefully it doesn't mean "I'm throwing you under the bus and framing you for this whole mess and running off to the tropics." 

He wasn’t really sure the message would be there at all. Hannibal could have been caught, killed, anything. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Looks at the window to be sure no one’s peeking in at him at that particular moment. Slowly tears out the page. He’ll keep just that one item but best to remove the whole page. Less likely anyone will notice that way, with the mess already made of the paper.

He memorizes the phone number and the Italian phrase. He should get rid of the paper. Eat it, flush it, something.

Instead he slips it under his mattress. A reminder, a comfort, and a warning, that Hannibal’s out there, somewhere in the world, free and waiting for him. Somewhere without barriers made of glass or morality.

He forces himself to read through the rest of Freddie’s trash, and the final paper behind it, and then sets the whole stack aside. He stares at the wall until lunch arrives. He thinks _amor_. He thinks _morte_. He listens to the whisper and hum of that wakened beast beneath his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Amor condusse noi ad una morte_ : "Love brought us to one death". It's Dante. Because of course it is. Hannibal, you predictable pretentious fuck. Or perhaps "Love gave us both one death." Some interesting notes on different translations [here](http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2013/11/04/recapping-dante-canto-5-or-a-note-on-the-translation/).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will doesn't dream, or if he does the dreams are buried so far under whiskey and Vicodin that he can't remember them. He wakes up early in the morning, stiff and sore, mouth tasting foul, still half under suspicion, his wife and son far away and his...whatever Hannibal is...on the run, but all of them alive and free. His shoulder twinges at each movement, an echo of the knife plunging into him, and he hisses with the pain but rolls his shoulder and intentionally courts it again just because it reminds him he is so very, very alive. His best efforts to the contrary, there is something in the universe that wants him to live._
> 
> _The mercies in his life are strange and hard these days, but they’re mercies nonetheless._

If Will had to hazard a guess what’s going through the mind of his driver right now, he’s pretty sure it would be something like “I am not getting paid enough for this.”

He doesn’t even try to suppress the grin, doesn’t mind that it pulls a bit at the mostly-but-not-quite healed wound in his cheek. He’s too happy. 

The agent had instructions from Jack to take Will wherever he needed to go after his release from the hospital, to get things in order so he could come home. Will isn’t going to be able to drive himself anywhere until he’s off the last of the painkillers. Jack’s not above using that as an excuse to saddle him with an FBI babysitter. The agent had probably been thinking groceries, prescriptions, maybe a stop to pick up a less rickety cane than the wobbly piece of junk the hospital sent home with Will. He probably had not been thinking: dog chauffeur.

But all Will wants is his dogs, and his house. And a proper shower and some real food and a stiff drink, but dogs and home are a start. 

He'd probably have skipped the grocery run altogether but he's not up to making dog food yet so he needs to buy them something terrible and canned to get them through the next few days. God only knows what the neighbor’s been feeding them. While he's at the store he picks up a few basics for himself to stave off any further need for contact with the outside world. 

There's a display of prepaid phones and he considers getting the burner phone he's going to need, but it seems a bit too brazen while he's actually being driven around by an agent. He resists the impulse. His babysitter is probably on orders to pickpocket his receipt and bring it back for inclusion in Jack’s Will Graham dossier. 

He does pick up a copy of Tattle Crime. He uses the self checkout to avoid the moment when a cashier picks up the thing to scan it, and then does a double take as she matches the face in front of her to the one crisscrossed by a lurid headline in her hand. Fucking Freddie fucking Lounds.

On the way out of the store he balls up the itemized receipt and chucks it into a trash can, just in case he’s right about his agent’s orders. He slinks down low in the passenger seat of the car, avoiding the eyes of the couple getting into a car next to him. Maybe they’re just staring at the scar. Maybe they don’t recognize him. It’s still enough to make him want to set up grocery deliveries and never leave his house again.

He directs the agent to the home of the neighbor Molly’s had dog-sitting and collecting their mail, and they stuff the car full of overjoyed dogs, and for the first time in ages Will feels good. There’s currently a head sticking up between the front seats barking joyously and another snaking around the back of Will’s headrest slurping at his ear, and he’s as purely happy as he’s been in as long as he can remember.

When they pull up to the house he’s slow getting up the front steps and the dogs are a roiling mass of fur and exuberance, but they seem to understand that he’s not to be knocked over right now, and they don’t bump too hard against him or the cane. He takes it slow, step by step, and the agent follows him with the bags full of dog food and a few bits of human food.

His own house keys are god knows where, but he uses the hidden key to get in and tries not to think about how often he told Molly it was a terrible idea to have the hidden key. 

Inside, everything looks familiar and strange all at once. Home and not-home. He’s suddenly exhausted and sad, the initial rush of joy at freedom fading, and he’s more curt than he intended to be with the agent. Groceries on the counter, thanks-for-the-ride, tell-Jack-I’ll-call-if-I-need-anything, bye-now, he’s all but rushing the guy out the door. But his agent-slash-babysitter isn’t putting up any resistance. Poor guy probably wants to go find the nearest car wash and get all the dog hair vacuumed out of his formerly-pristine FBI vehicle. Or maybe he wants the nearest bar and a drink. Hard to tell.

Will waits until the sound of the car fades in the distance before he locks the front door, stares down the bags of groceries and considers putting them away, considers trying to reach Molly, considers starting to make some of the arrangements he needs to make, and gets completely paralyzed with options and indecision. He ends up on the sofa instead. Doing anything at all seems like too much effort, and the house is too quiet and empty, not a human sound in it but his own. He hurts all over and he just needs to be nothing for a while.

The dogs pile up around him and he takes some comfort from their warmth and their uncomplicated happiness in his presence. Eventually he rouses enough to spend a while with each dog in turn, talking to them, checking them over, noting who’s getting too fat or too thin or too ill-mannered, petting them and letting them sniff at his strange hospital smells and at the dust and musty smells of their abandoned home.

He feels a little more like himself again when he’s checked over his little pack. He manages to pull himself together enough to put away the groceries and put out some food and water for the dogs. 

After that he’s out of energy and the will to do anything else even resembling usefulness. He pours a glass of whiskey and washes down some painkillers with it, ignoring the giant warning on the label saying not to do that very thing. He thinks about going to the bedroom to lie down, but it feels too far away, and too strange to sleep there alone. He goes back to the sofa and falls asleep before it’s even fully dark out.

Will doesn't dream, or if he does the dreams are buried so far under whiskey and Vicodin that he can't remember them. He wakes up early in the morning, stiff and sore, mouth tasting foul, still half under suspicion, his wife and son far away and his...whatever Hannibal is...on the run, but all of them alive and free. His shoulder twinges at each movement, an echo of the knife plunging into him, and he hisses with the pain but rolls his shoulder and intentionally courts it again just because it reminds him he is so very, very alive. His best efforts to the contrary, there is something in the universe that wants him to live.

The mercies in his life are strange and hard these days, but they’re mercies nonetheless. 

He smiles fierce and humorless, suspects it comes out closer to a grimace, hauls himself off the sofa with a groan and goes to let the dogs out.

He spends most of that first day home in a bit of a haze, wandering through the empty house with a rotating cast of dogs at his heels. He picks up a book on his bedside table and tries to remember why he was reading it and whether he liked it. The version of himself that placed the bookmark at page 76 is difficult to recall. He thinks he remembers that Will being happy. He wonders idly if the man he is today was already there then, coiled inside that Will waiting for his turn, or if he’s something new, born into existence at the moment Francis Dolarhyde drowned in his own blood. Hannibal would have something interesting to say on the subject, if he could reach him.

His hand reaches absently for his cell phone, but even if it were there in his hip pocket instead of somewhere in the Atlantic, he couldn’t just pick it up and call Hannibal.That will have to wait. He doesn’t trust that his phone won’t be monitored. Nor does he know what he would say.

He should get a new phone tomorrow, though, so Molly can reach him. If she wants to. He’s not sure about that. They had a few brief conversations while he was in the hospital. They were kind and awkward, hampered by so many things, Jack’s restrictions on acceptable topics perhaps least among them. She hadn’t offered to come back and be here when he was discharged. He hadn’t asked her to. Neither fact was lost on either of them. 

They’ve worked too hard for what they’d had not to be aware of it slipping, and of neither of them putting forth enough effort to halt the slide, only to slow it. You can get so, so far on love, but not everywhere. Not past all breaches. Not on the kind of love that Molly knows, and he hopes for her sake that she never knows the other kind that he knows. The kind that storms past breaches, disregards boundaries, crawls into your skin and cracks your ribs open and does not heed your protests as it sinks its teeth into the clenching muscle of your heart. 

Tomorrow. He’ll go out again tomorrow, face the world, buy a new phone for Molly and if he’s sure enough that he’s not being followed, a second phone for Hannibal. 

Things had been so simple in that moment when he had jumped, and now they’re so complicated and getting more so by the moment. 

Will puts the book down, heedless of the bookmark slipping out. It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to be finishing it.

He wanders back downstairs, barely stirring the air in his own house with his passing, and fixes himself a sandwich with twin ghosts over his shoulders. Molly chiding him to eat something, anything, he’s still healing and needs to take care of himself. Hannibal muttering darkly about the inadequacy of the cold cuts and the pallor of the sliced tomato. No question who’s the devil and who the angel here, he thinks with a quirk of the lips that’s not quite a smile. The only real question is who he is, caught in the middle.

He eats the sandwich mechanically, barely tasting it, most of his mind by the river with Abigail. He does his physical therapy exercises, wincing, pushing himself too hard for the sheer pleasure of feeling the edges of what he can take and then pushing past those edges, sweat dripping down the back of his neck by the time he’s done. 

Afterward he holds the bottle of Vicodin in his hand, weighing it, considering it. It would be nice to have the option of fuzzy-headed nothingness. But too many things are hanging in the balance right now and he can’t afford to indulge himself in a lack of clarity. He needs to be able to drive himself places without a babysitter. In the end he comes down on the side of awareness, even if that awareness is of pain, and shakes the rest of the pills loose into the trash where he can’t be tempted by them. 

He does allow himself a drink. He takes it into the bathroom and sips it slowly in the tub, hot water lapping painfully at some of his injuries while soothing the ache from others.

When he’s done he wraps a towel around his waist and goes into the living room to face the daunting task of sorting through the mail they brought back from the neighbor, weeks' worth.

He sorts fast and careless, bills, junk mail, the odd piece of personal correspondence, and he's almost at the bottom of the bag when his hand grazes a piece of paper that it recognizes as different before he consciously notes anything. Something about the heaviness of the paper. Because if Hannibal Lecter is going to postpone his run for the hills long enough to hand deliver a message, he's going to use good stationery for it.

Will doesn't hear himself make the little sound that's somewhere between a laugh and a sob, but several dog ears perk up, heads twisting in his direction.

There's no postmark. Slipped into his mailbox in person. Hannibal was here, outside this building. It must have been one of the first things he did after leaving the cliff house, before Jack would have gotten it together to keep an eye on this place. 

He works the envelope open carefully and a single sheet of paper falls out. It's not one of Hannibal's best sketches, done in too much of a hurry, but there's feeling in the rough lines. In the drawing Will is only captured from the neck up, and the background is only a vague suggestion of stars. The lines on his face could be oddly drawn shadows, if you had not been there to recognize them as blood. 

All the work went into Will's eyes. They're wide and dark and hungry and he knows he could not possibly have been this beautiful that night, or ever in his life. But he also knows this is the truth of how Hannibal saw him in the moment before he pulled them both off balance and down to the sea. This is how he looks when his carefully tended walls collapse.

This is such a stupid and reckless thing for Hannibal to have taken the time to draw. To have risked coming here to give to him. It's a stupid thing for Will to keep.

He knows he will keep it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They cast and wait, quiet and content together, until Abigail asks him what he's doing there. "What are you hiding from now?"_
> 
> _"I'm not hiding. I can just like being here with you, can't I?"_
> 
> _"Sometimes. Not today." She shrugs and a breeze blows her hair across her eyes. She brushes it aside impatiently. "Can't fool me. I live in your head. Also I figured out a lot of stuff when I died. I know more about the world now."  
> _

Without the painkillers Will can drive, but it’s uncomfortable and after a while edges into outright pain. He’s cursing low and steady under his breath, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, trying to keep an eye out in the rearview mirror for anyone who might be tailing him. 

He’s not sure just how far his tacit agreement with Jack holds. He seems to have wiggled successfully out of any attempts to pin anything but self-defense on him. He’d love to know exactly what his file says now but he is at the moment on leave from teaching and profiling and pretty much his entire life, so chances of getting his hands on that information are slim. He’s had to be content with knowing that he seems to be more or less free.

But he’s less convinced that he’s unmonitored. He’s pretty sure Jack will use him to get at Hannibal if he possibly can. Will was such good bait once before. He can just about feel Jack trying to slip in the hook once again. 

So he watches. And he drives the long, meandering way even though it hurts. No one appears to be following.

At the wireless store he buys something sleek and shiny for his real life to replace the phone that got lost somewhere on the night of the Dragon. It’s the latest something or other, he really doesn’t care but he lets the customer service guy upsell him because it’s a reason to rest his leg until the dull throbbing subsides and because he wants to watch people pass by the store window. He wants to see if anyone seems unduly interested in him. He hands over a credit card and manages not to wince at the total. With the hospital bills he’s got coming this will barely make a dent.

With that phone tucked away in his pocket, he makes a loop around the shopping plaza to a discount store where he picks up a few odds and ends he doesn’t particularly need, some ibuprofen in a probably-useless attempt to minimize the pain of the drive home, and a prepaid phone. It’s clunky and without bells and whistles. He pays cash. He feels conspicuous but the bored clerk doesn’t seem to care. She barely looks up from her register.

He slings the bag in the trunk of the car and slides back behind the wheel. He dry-swallows a double dose of ibuprofen and leans his head back. Closes his eyes. Waits for the little pills to smooth the rough edges of his pain at least a little.

When he feels like the pain is as dulled as it’s going to get on over-the-counter drugs, he puts the car into motion and heads home. The regular route this time; he’s been followed or he hasn’t, and either way there’s nothing to be done about it now.

He arrives home exhausted and angry with himself for finding such a little thing, a simple errand, so exhausting mentally and physically. _You really are a terrible patient_ , he chides himself. 

He wonders how Hannibal is doing. What injuries he took, how he got patched up, if he’s hurting like this or if he’s gotten into a stash of good drugs somewhere. He has the means to find out, now.

He plugs in both of the new phones and leaves them charging while he naps some of the exhaustion away, then lets the dogs out for a romp that he watches although he can’t participate. He does his physical therapy. He washes the single bowl and spoon from his breakfast.

When he runs out of ways to stall, Will looks at the two phones side by side, blinking green and ready to make contact with the outside world. He doesn’t understand how to choose which one to pick up, who to call first, and he really doesn’t understand how he’s going to make the choices that lie ahead if he can’t even manage this much.

Eventually he opts for the shark-sleek new phone, smooth light curves in his hand. All the information already there, transferred over in some sort of technological magic by the customer service representative. He just has to use the speed dial.

He taps the screen, leans his head against the back of the chair, and waits through the rings. He tells himself he’s disappointed when the call goes to voicemail but some of the tension in his shoulders uncoils of its own volition. Molly’s voice is brisk and breezy, recorded months ago before the shadow of his past fell over both their lives.

When Will starts to speak it comes out hoarse; other than a few words exchanged with the store clerks he hasn’t really spoken to anyone since the agent brought him home. He coughs and starts again. “Molly. Hi. It’s me. Obviously. I replaced my phone so you can reach me now and I just...wanted to say hello. See how you were doing.” It sounds pathetic even to him. One of the dogs is staring at him skeptically as if even she isn’t buying it. “Give me a call, okay? Say hi to Walter. I miss y--” _BEEP_. Cut off. He could call back. Continue telling Molly how much he misses her. He doesn’t do it.

He doesn’t pick up the other phone immediately, either. Calling Hannibal right after Molly seems improper somehow. As if they were interchangeable. It feels like it would be an insult to both of them.

He picks up the remote control instead and idly flips through some channels but everything reminds him of something he'd rather not think about. A cooking show. A crime show. Baseball. 

He turns the TV off and slips away into his mind instead, into the calm by the river. He doesn't go straight there. He lets himself in through a rickety little gate some distance away, whatever distance means inside your own mind. He knows the gate leads to a sunlit dirt road, thick with fallen leaves, that he can walk to the river. He walks slowly, savoring the crunch of the leaves, savoring the ability to walk unaided and without pain. He doesn't think about anything but the animal pleasures of the warm sun, breeze in his hair, easy pull and stretch and slide of muscles under his skin, sound of the river in the distance, birds calling, smells of grass and earth.

When he does come to the river, Abigail is sitting atop a big flat rock he's pretty sure has never been there before. She's dressed to fish and she waves happily at him as he draws near. He finds he's dressed to fish too, and they wade out into the river of Will's mind.

They cast and wait, quiet and content together, until Abigail asks him what he's doing there. "What are you hiding from now?"

"I'm not hiding. I can just like being here with you, can't I?"

"Sometimes. Not today." She shrugs and a breeze blows her hair across her eyes. She brushes it aside impatiently. "Can't fool me. I live in your head. Also I figured out a lot of stuff when I died. I know more about the world now."

It never fails to cut him, how easily the Abigail in his head takes to being dead. How little she seems to care about the metaphysical questions of her afterlife, whether any of her is anything like the real Abigail by now or if she's all Will's Jiminy Cricket conscience in reverse, the whispering voice that tells him to do what he should not do but longs for anyway. She doesn't care. She seems to like her existence, such as it is.

"Fine. I'm not hiding, really. I'm just preparing. To call Hannibal. I have no idea what to say."

"Have you ever known Hannibal to have any trouble directing a conversation?" She's laughing but she's got a point. "Honestly, have you ever gone into a conversation with Hannibal with a plan, and had it work out exactly the way you intended?"

He mock-glares but has to admit the point. "Once or twice. Not often, I'll admit."

"Maybe you need to stop planning things. Playing complicated games. Maybe you should try just having a conversation."

"He's going to want answers I don't have."

"So tell him that."

"Jesus, you make it sound easy."

"It could be." 

There's a bite on the line and for a moment they're both distracted, reeling in her catch. It's a good one. She's pleased with herself.

When the excitement subsides Will finds himself studying Abigail, her windswept and heartbreaking loveliness on the edge of an adulthood she'll never have. "Were you ever in love, Abigail?"

She turns a slightly blank expression on him. "You never asked, did you?"

"There wasn't time. Before he took you from me. It never came up."

"So now you'll never know. I can give you an answer but it will only be what you want to hear. What do you want to hear?"

He only thinks about it for a moment. "Yes, I think. I'd like to know that you had love in your life even if it wasn't for long. Maybe something uncomplicated. Something that didn't break your heart."

She smiles then, but it's the saddest smile Will's ever seen. "Yes, then. I had love. I was loved and happy and someone wanted me with him more than anything in the world. It was simple and easy and no one got their heart broken and I was young but old enough to understand how good it was to have that for even a little while. No one was betrayed. No one left. No one bled. Is that the fairytale you want?"

He closes his eyes briefly against the pain of how much he will never know about what her life was when it wasn't horror. All the time they didn't have. He wonders if she told Hannibal more. If he might tell Will a true story about Abigail someday. "Yes, Abigail. That's what I wanted. I would like it to happen that way sometimes, for someone. For you."

He usually stays to say goodbye but he finds he can't do it this time. He can't open his eyes and see the lie in hers. He lets her and the fish and the river and the fairytale dissolve in the darkness behind his eyes and when he opens them again he's in the living room alone.

Before he can stop himself he reaches for the cheap plastic phone, taps out a text to the number he memorized in the hospital.

_Home now. Just me and the dogs. This number should be safe. Call me when you can? I miss you._ He hovers over the "send" key for a moment, then deletes the last three words. Replaces them with _Thank you for my drawing._ Hits send before he can overthink it. 

He puts the phone down again, neatly next to Molly's phone. He sits in the slowly darkening room and waits for one of them, either one of them, to ring.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We ruined my life, Hannibal. Fuck." The anger breaks as quickly as it came on. It really was "we." He can't pretend Hannibal did this to him against his will. He was there. He architected his own disaster._
> 
> _"You can build a new one. I've done it more than once. Leaving the old one is the hardest part. Once you do that, the rest falls in place."_
> 
> _"Everything falls into place for you. I'm not like you."_
> 
> _Hannibal leaves that hanging in the air for a moment and they both know what they're both thinking._

He’s half asleep when a phone finally rings, eyes closed, sunk deep into the chair’s warmth, and it takes him a moment to place the sound.

Two new phones. Two new ringtones he doesn’t know yet. With his eyes still shut Will Graham interrogates himself: Which one do you _want_ it to be when you open your eyes?

It’s barely a question. It barely needs answering. He’s falling, still, all these weeks later. He’s beginning to think he may never stop falling, that for the rest of his life no matter where he is or what he’s doing, some part of him is going to be dizzy, airborne, clinging to Hannibal Lecter with every ounce of strength he possesses, blood on his lips, heartbeat shaking his body, surrendering all his hard-earned control at the very last to gravity and water and love.

_I’m sorry, Molly._

He opens his eyes and looks to see which of the phones is alight.

He smiles, and falls, and reaches for the phone.

“Hey.” There’s silence on the other end and he shakes his head, exasperated and relieved in a rush all at once. “God, you’re paranoid. It’s me. You know it’s me. Say something.”

A sigh on the other end of the connection. “A dash of paranoia is a useful safeguard in my current position, Will.”

Something in Will loosens, something he hadn’t realized he was holding so tightly. He hadn’t really been entirely sure this was a voice he would hear again, until now. “You’re...it really is you. I think I didn’t believe it would be until right now.”

“But you reached out anyway.”

Will can hear the smile through the phone line, faint but there. He wonders if his own echoes through the same way. “Call it an act of faith, if you will. Or an act of desperation. I didn’t want to have gone through all this for nothing.”

“Has it been so hard, then?”

“I’ve had better months. I don’t want to talk about it right now. Talk to me. Tell me something about you. Where are you? Are you okay?”

For once, Hannibal takes a “no” for an answer and changes the subject without missing a beat. “I’m somewhere warm.”

“You’re not going to tell me.”

“Not today.”

“You think I’m going to go running to Jack?”

That elicits a warm chuckle, right into his ear like Hannibal’s leaned up against him. If he closes his eyes he can almost imagine it. “You would have done that by now if you were going to. He’d be on this phone line.”

“He could be.” Will’s just poking at Hannibal now to see if he can. So much of their communication has always been unspoken, body language, facial expressions. He doesn’t know the right buttons to push when all he has is a voice. “Say hi to the nice FBI agents, Hannibal.”

“I’m quite certain it’s just the two of us, Will. You’d never sound so relaxed with Jack Crawford in the room.”

It’s only then that Will realizes he actually is relaxed, maybe for the first time in days, boneless in his chair, not a thought or a worry in his head other than the moment at hand. It’s unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He holds out a hand absently and waits for a dog to butt up against it, sinks his hand into the warm fur to ground himself before he melts completely. “Maybe I’m a better actor than you give me credit for.”

Hannibal ignores that. “Perhaps I just don’t want to answer all your questions too easily. Perhaps I want you to have a reason to call me again soon. So that’s all you get today. I’m somewhere warm. It’s sunny but a rainstorm just passed, so the air is thick and humid. It’s a bit like sitting in a sauna fully clothed.”

"Sounds like the sort of place for a giant tiki drink. Something served in a coconut. Maybe something on fire. Or with a pink umbrella."

Will can almost see Hannibal’s shudder with his eyes closed. "I accept that my tastes must change to stay hidden, but I have my limits, Will. I do not acknowledge the existence of pink umbrella drinks."

They pass a long moment in silence. It's a comfortable silence. Will looks out the window at the barren branches waving in a chill wind and thinks _heat. Sun._ He listens to Hannibal's breaths.

Eventually he asks, "So when do we talk about what's going on here?"

"Whenever you like." The voice is light but Will's almost sure that the fierce attentive thing behind Hannibal's eyes just snapped to attention. Almost sure. It's infuriating not to know for certain. 

"I don't understand what happens next here. And do _not_ say it's all up to me. You're not my doctor and I'm not paying for your time. We did a really fucked up thing together and I lied about it for you--" Will rushes past the protest he can hear forming. "For both of us. Yes. And I liked it. Yes. And I don't know what happens to me now. To us."

Hannibal's silent and it should be infuriating but it's not. Will just knows, without being sure how he knows, that Hannibal's not evading, he's just giving the question the serious consideration it deserves. Will waits.

"I'm sorry. I wish you could have left with me that night. It would have made some things easier on you, I think. If the choice had been made in the heat of that moment. Now you have to make it again with cool blood and a clearer head."

Will can't deny that. It would be nice to have the choices made, all the bridges burned already. To be sitting with Hannibal on a tropical island. Drinking the most ridiculous umbrella drink he can concoct just to watch Hannibal's eyes roll. Or to be at the bottom of the sea, cool and peaceful and complete. Or to be able to go back to Molly and Walter without the knowledge about himself that he now has. "What if I said I'm ready. I want to leave right now."

"Do you?"

"I don't know. What if I said it?"

He can hear the reluctance in Hannibal's voice in his ear: "I'd say not yet. There's some value in having one of us able to move about freely in his own identity."

Will snorts rudely. "Freely. You should see Jack. He's sniffing around me for your scent. He's probably got snipers in the trees outside my house,"

"So go wave at them. Send them my greetings." Hannibal's voice is amused and Will considers it briefly . But he's almost sure he was kidding about the snipers. Almost.

"So. You want me here to make your arrangements for you. I'm what, your valet?"

"Never." The response is swift and unequivocal. "I want you here with me. I want... I want to show you many things, Will. But I only want you here when you're sure. If we're very careful we may be able to get you out with your identity intact, if we wait long enough for Jack to let down his guard. But most likely, you'll have to give up being Will Graham. There won't be any going back."

It's half a threat, half a promise, a warning and a seduction all at once, and Will feels an unaccountable desire to growl low in his throat at something in Hannibal's voice. He never liked being Will Graham much anyway. _Get a grip, Will._

"So you're just going to wait for me. And, what, be my pen pal?"

"This will be much more pleasant than the previous years I waited for you. And I have some projects of my own to work on."

"I can just imagine." He wonders what feverish nightmares the tropics will call from Hannibal's remarkable brain, what art he will create of death. Whether he'll come home with the blood still on his hands and dial Will's number to tell him about it.

"I don't think you can, actually. I'll tell you about them someday." His voice is soft, but after a moment he snaps back to practicalities. "Also, I'm guessing you're in no shape to travel. I called a few times and tried to get the hospital to update me on your status but they were annoyingly well trained on patient privacy."

Will feels scrutinized, suddenly, somehow pinned down under eyes that are probably an ocean away. "I'm fine. I think my left side is more steel plate than bone at this point. Hurts. But I can get around."

"What else?" Hannibal's tone is inscrutable. Will can't tell if this is about his professional concern for Will's health, personal worry, or if he's talking to the part of Hannibal that enjoys his distress. This would be so much easier if they were face to face. He chooses to believe Hannibal's not enjoying this, and stares into space as he runs down the inventory. 

"I'm missing an internal organ or two but apparently nothing I can't live without. Sadly, the hospital didn't save them for you. I've got a charming collection of new scars all over. You're going to love them. My memory's still a little spotty around that night, they said I probably hit my head on the way down. I think I've got more of other people's blood in my veins than my own. I think my wife is leaving me and I don't think I'm doing a thing to stop her. I'm pretty sure I no longer have a job. I may or may not be getting ready to run away with you, except apparently you won’t let me until it suits you. On the plus side, the nightmares seem to be gone. I'm sleeping like a baby. And I have a really nice Hannibal Lecter original sketch of myself to frame for the bedside table, if it doesn't get confiscated as evidence in my murder trial. Does that cover what you wanted to know?" 

Somewhere in all of that, he's not sure where, he must have gotten mad because by the end his voice is raised, fast, harsh enough to bring two dogs jingling into the room to ensure everything's okay.

"Thank you, Will. That covers it." He can't tell if Hannibal is mocking or sincere. He's going to have to get better at this phone thing, and fast, or they're never going to survive this. "I am truly sorry for almost all of that."

"We ruined my life, Hannibal. Fuck." The anger breaks as quickly as it came on. It really was "we." He can't pretend Hannibal did this to him against his will. He was there. He architected his own disaster. 

"You can build a new one. I've done it more than once. Leaving the old one is the hardest part. Once you do that, the rest falls in place."

"Everything falls into place for you. I'm not _like_ you."

Hannibal leaves that hanging in the air for a moment and they both know what they're both thinking. Actually, it turns out, when it comes right down to it, when the blood is running and the stakes are high enough, Will is exactly like Hannibal. Or vice versa. It has occurred to Will more than once that the scene on the cliff top was really much more like him than like Hannibal, no art or display to it, no measured control, messy and raw. He's no longer sure who was mirroring who.

They sit for a minute, quiet, breathing, feeling their separate ways back from a land mine neither of them wants to detonate today.

"Shit. Hannibal. Let's just..not, okay? Not today? I really just wanted to hear your voice. Make sure you're alive out there somewhere."

"I'm alive. I'm here. I'll be waiting for you when it's safe for you to leave and when you want to."

"Until then?"

"You call me. Whenever you want. I'm here."

"It's weird talking to you like this. We never really talked on the phone. I can't tell what you're thinking."

"It's something new. We'll learn together. Ask me if you need to know. I will tell you the truth."

"Okay." Will feels an immediate need to test that promise. "What are you thinking right now?"

A laugh, again. They're back on safe ground, for now. "I'm thinking that you are impossible. I'm thinking that I am very glad you're alive. I'm thinking that you are an unprecedented occurrence in my life."

Will considers bringing up Bedelia. Does not, this time. This all feels too new and fragile for that.

"How long can I keep you on the phone?"

"As long as you want.”

Will considers that. Considers keeping the line open while he goes about his evening, for the pleasure of feeling not-alone in the house. Is perfectly aware the night will probably come when he does exactly that. Decides it won’t be tonight.

“I’ll call tomorrow. Can I call tomorrow?”

“You can call anytime.”

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

Hannibal doesn’t fight him for more time. He’s as aware as Will is that they’re playing a long game. “Goodnight, Will. Sleep well.”

And he’s gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"So, you're in a fantastic mood," is Abigail's opening sally. He can't remember anymore if she was always so direct or if that's just one of the things that changed when she came to live in his head._
> 
> _"I'm tired of everyone. It's too fucking hard. Everyone wants or has a piece of me and I feel like I'm being carved up until there's nothing left that's worth anything. Just..."_
> 
> _"Just the scraps. The leftover bits no one wanted." Her voice is soft. She understands what the thought costs him, and maybe that's why she says it for him._

Jack waits a week before sending an agent by the house. Just to check in. Just to see how Will’s doing, if he needs anything. 

The agent sounds a little apologetic; she knows perfectly well there’s no good reason for this visit. Jack knows how to use a phone. She’s there to look for anything unusual and report back. And to remind Will that Jack’s still interested in what he’s doing with his new freedom.

Will resists the urge to snap at her. It’s not her fault. He’s been Jack’s lure too, he knows the temptation of just falling in with the plan. Not having to think or wonder if you’re doing the right thing.

After a moment’s thought, he invites her in out of the chilly morning air for a cup of coffee before she has to start the drive back. Might as well give her a chance to report back properly. Buy himself a little time before anyone else comes poking around. It’ll be fine as long as she stays out of the bedroom, where he’d left his Hannibal phone on the nightstand the previous evening after he’d nearly fallen asleep mid-conversation. He’ll keep her on the first floor.

He invites her into the kitchen and points her toward a stool where he can keep an eye on her while he works. Keep her from wandering. He makes some idle chitchat about his medical progress and about the dogs. He does his best to give the impression of being just a little bit weaker and more tired than he actually feels. He leans on the cane more heavily than he needs to. Makes a point of walking her through most of the downstairs on the pretext of showing off one of the dogs, just so she can get a good look around and report back to Jack that he’s settled back in, getting comfortable with his dogs, still moving slow and wounded, not showing any signs of making a break for it anytime soon. Not hiding anything.

She asks to use the restroom and mostly manages to hide being slightly disappointed when he points her to the one on the ground floor, no excuse for her to check out the second floor. He assumes she’s looking through the medicine cabinet, and isn’t sorry he’s keeping the new medications upstairs so there’s nothing interesting for her to paw through. She’ll see the Ativan stash but he’s had an emergency script for that for years (for all the good they do, standard PTSD treatments aren’t particularly effective for the kinds of things he’s been through and the kind of brain he has, but he refuses therapy so the pills are what there is for him). They’ll be in his file already, old news.

He ushers her out politely with his thanks to Jack for checking in, and confirmation that he will surely call if he needs anything, and then he sags against the door once it’s closed.

Interacting with people in his personal space is exhausting enough at the best of times. Worse when he has to pretend. When he has to keep an eye on where they are at all times. How did Hannibal do it for so long? How is he supposed to do it if (when) (if) he joins Hannibal wherever he is? 

He’d slide down to the floor right there if he were sure he could get back up again, but he’s not quite sure his leg bends the right way for that anymore. Instead he looks out the window to be sure the agent is gone, then opens the door and goes out to sit on the porch. His pack spills out the door after him joyfully into the cold air.

He sits out there for several minutes in his t-shirt and pajama pants, letting the chill soak into his bones until his teeth are nearly chattering. It’s a distraction from thinking about what the hell he’s doing, playing games with Jack Crawford. If he’s not careful Jack’s going to slip in the hook so smooth he won’t even feel it.

He’d probably stay out there all afternoon, courting pneumonia in his current less-than-robust state, but the phone rings. Molly’s phone.

They haven’t spoken in a few days. Will probably should have called. He can’t not answer the phone, even as painful as this is for both of them.

He makes his way back inside to get the phone and catches it just before it goes to voicemail. “Hi, Molly.”

“Hey, you.” Her voice is warm, but the pet names have been gone since the hospital. He’s trying hard not to take it personally. It’s good that she’s pulling away. He needs to let her go. Whatever he’s going to do next, it’s not going to be safe for Molly or Walter to be a part of it, and the kindest thing to do is to let it be her idea. He needs to just let her do it.

None of that makes it any easier. None of what’s happened to him makes him not love Molly, it just makes it impossible for him to be only hers, or to be any good for her. He’d worked so hard to make himself good for her. The last good thing he can do for her is this.

He takes the phone to the door so he can look out at the dogs, the landscape, the yard filled with echoes of the good life they’ve led in it together. "How are you doing? How's Walter?" He doesn't ask after her parents. They never liked him, he never liked them, and he can't imagine his leading a serial killer home to the house he shares with their daughter and grandson has improved that situation any.

"I'm okay. Tired but okay. Walter's great. He made some new friends. They're teaching him to skateboard. Makes me want to wrap him up in bubble wrap from head to toe."

Will pictures that for a moment. Walter brown from the sun he'd never get this time of year at home, making friends, throwing himself into the air, feeling graceful and weightless. It's a good image, Walter happy. "That's good. How about the nightmares?"

She sighs. He can picture the face she makes to go with it. He aches somewhere in his bones. "Better. Only one this week. His shrink still says it's pretty normal given what happened. She doesn't want me to worry. But she still wants to see him every week so how am I supposed to not worry?"

"He'll be okay, Molly. He's young and resilient and it's good for him being out there. I assume they're spoiling him rotten?"

"Yes. 'They' are. Will--"

"Sorry, sorry. I'm a little grumpy today. Leg hurts. I'm starting to think maybe I'm turning into one of those people who can predict the weather by their aches. Makes me cranky, but I'll behave now."

She's quiet for a moment. "I really just called to see how you're doing. See if you're getting around okay. I don't want to bring Walter back there yet but if you need help I could... We could figure something out."

"I'm okay. Jack's got someone on call to help me out if I need anything. And I'm being a good boy and doing all my physical therapy exercises. Which, by the way, hurt like hell. That therapist is a sadist." That earns him a small sad chuckle. "You'll come back when Walter's ready. I'm fine here. Do you need me to send you anything, though?"

She says yes so fast that Will is almost certain that was the real point of the call. He tries again, with only partial success, to be glad that it's happening this way. A slow, kind, mutual peeling apart of the lives they had so gently and cautiously intermingled in their early months. She'll send him a list of some things they need. He'll let Jack send one of his agents to pick it up and get it shipped out to her. 

They chat for a few more minutes. The dogs, the weather. He makes her laugh. She only makes one reference to the night of the break-in. She doesn't ask, has never asked and will never ask, how much of this he knew would happen, whether he knows where Hannibal might be now, why he had kept so much from her. Her not asking is the loudest thing in the conversation.

They still say "I love you" before hanging up and there's no lie in it. Lack of love is not their problem and he won't be the one to stop saying it first. He's waiting for her to let go. Hannibal's waiting for him. Jack's waiting for Hannibal. Alana's probably waiting somewhere for an all-clear from Jack. The whole damn world holding its breath.

Will's suddenly feeling stifled, choked by the weight of everything he wants and cannot have, at least not now, not without causing someone pain.

He suddenly needs to be moving, as dicey a proposition as that is for him right now. Before he can think about it any further he's pulling on a hat and gloves, a coat over his t-shirt, jamming his feet into boots, motioning Winston to come with him and everyone else to stay. He hesitates at the doorway and considers going upstairs and getting the other phone. Decides against it in a burst of petulance and frustration. Maybe he wants to be unreachable for a while, not beholden to any of the people with claims on his life, work, or heart. He leaves the phone, takes the cane, and heads out into the chill again.

His breath curls visibly around his face. _Like a dragon_ , he thinks with a wry twist of his features. He brushes away the image of Francis Dolarhyde at the end, spread wide under the stars with bloody wings splayed beneath him, and starts down the driveway. Winston frolics around him, excited to be the one chosen for a walk.

Will's not surprised when, after a few minutes, he hears a second set of footsteps crunching in dead leaves. Most of the time he visits Abigail but she does have a way of coming to visit him instead. It doesn't seem to be something he has much conscious control over, it just happens to him. There she is, bundled up warmly against the chill. She doesn't have any curling dragon breath. It's been a long time since Abigail Hobbs breathed.

"So, you're in a fantastic mood," is her opening sally. He can't remember anymore if she was always so direct or if that's just one of the things that changed when she came to live in his head.

"I'm tired of everyone. It's too fucking hard. Everyone wants or has a piece of me and I feel like I'm being carved up until there's nothing left that's worth anything. Just..."

"Just the scraps. The leftover bits no one wanted." Her voice is soft. She understands what the thought costs him, and maybe that's why she says it for him. 

"Yes." He bites the word off hard and it lingers in the cold air between them.

"So forget what everyone else wants. What do you want?"

Will stares down at the ground, watches Winston sniffing at something. Takes a moment to consider whether he has an answer to that question. "I'm having trouble reconciling what I want with what I should do, and what I'm capable of."

Abigail studies Winston, who walks right through her like she's not there ( _because she’s not there, Will, keep it together_ ), a sight Will's seen before but never fails to be unnerved by. "Sounds like your old familiar song. Just a new chorus. Do you ever want to sing a new song?'

Will shrugs, the movement pulling at his bad shoulder. "I might be too old to learn new tricks. Tell you what I want. I want to take a walk. I want to take a walk with you and Winston and pretend things aren't complicated."

Abigail tugs her scarf up around her neck against a chill she can't possibly feel and smiles at him, gentle and sweet, daughter of his heart. "Okay. Let's go."

They continue down the path together as long as Will's mending body allows. He pushes himself a little too far and has to rest for a while before going home. He leans against a fence and watches Winston play, feeling untethered, feeling what it might be like to walk away from everything and everyone.

It’s not a bad feeling. He lets himself imagine what that might be like, to choose only himself, and dogs, and solitude, an existence not unlike the one he was living before Hannibal walked into his life. There are some nice things about the daydream. But when he gets inside, he pauses only briefly to shrug off his coat and kick off his shoes, and then he goes straight upstairs to see whether Hannibal has called.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn't know if it's Hannibal's thought that he's picking up. Doesn't ask because the alternative, that it's purely his own want, is something he's not ready to think about. Also because he doesn't need to give Hannibal any ideas. The man has entirely too many ideas about him already._
> 
> _“Will.” Hannibal’s voice brings him back to himself. “Where did you just go?”_

“This isn’t exactly subtle, you know.”

“Good morning to you too, Will.” 

Will glares at the postmark on the box in front of him on the table. “Not if you’re in Paris, it’s not. Good afternoon.”

“I’m not anymore. I was just passing through on business. I assume Jack’s opening your mail, so I vacated the premises once I’d mailed your gift.”

“You don’t think he’s going to wonder why I’ve suddenly taken to mail-ordering cashmere scarves from France?” Will runs his fingers over the soft fabric, resisting the urge to take it out of its tissue paper nest and wrap it around his throat right now or perhaps just rub the soft nap against his cheek.

“He may wonder but he can’t prove anything. He won’t find anything useful if he tries to trace it back. Have a little bit of faith in me.”

Will’s relenting already but he tries to keep a note of sternness in his voice. “This is not ‘staying below the radar.’ And I can buy myself a scarf.”

“And _have_ you bought yourself a scarf?” Will doesn’t answer, and Hannibal presses. “It’s been more than two weeks since that dog--”

“--Randy. He has a name.”

“Since Randy shredded your scarf.”

“I remember. I was the one who had to clean up the mess.”

“It’s cold there. You need a scarf. Jack can’t trace anything and he can’t prove anything. Stop complaining and tell me whether you like it.”

Will sighs and tips his head back, stares at the ceiling. “You know I like it.”

“I would appreciate hearing it from you.” Hannibal wants him to be _courteous_. Of course he does. Although he likes it just as much when Will isn’t. It's a little intoxicating, to know that he can do pretty much anything, and Hannibal will like it.

Sometimes, when Will is in the right mood, it entertains him to see just how far he can push, what behavior Hannibal allows him that might get anyone else turned into tomorrow’s breakfast. Today he’s not quite in that mood but he’s willing to play along a little bit.

“Okay. Fine. It’s beautiful and I did need it. I'll wear it, and I won’t let Randy anywhere near it. But if Jack's still looking and he tracks you down, it will be your own damn fault and I'm not going to feel sorry for you. But if he does, I’ll wear the scarf to your trial so you can see me in it. Better?”

“Better.” Hannibal's voice has gone soft and low, and Will knows he's picturing Will wearing his gift.

"Where are we today?" He's taken to asking Hannibal this almost every time, curious about his memory palace, its seemingly endless rooms, where Hannibal chooses to see him.

"We're in an outdoor courtyard. It's much like the Luxembourg Gardens but without the tourists. We're sitting at a small white table with the light filtering through the leaves. Without anyone else here, the little toy boats in the big fountain are just skimming aimlessly, going where the wind takes them."

Will does his best to call up the scene, eyes closed. He pictures the dappled sunlight, the way it would play over Hannibal's face, the way a sudden breeze might toss the branches and blind Will with a stray brilliant shaft of sunlight, send toy sailboats skidding across an empty expanse of water to bump up against each other and capsize. He imagines a tiny model Nola among the boats.

"Nice. Any particular reason?"

"Not really. I visited there while I was in France. It's on my mind."

"Fair enough. Are you going to tell me what you were doing there and why you never mentioned it?" While he talks, he's removing the scarf from the tissue paper and he knows Hannibal hears the rustle. He runs the length of the thick, soft fabric through his fingers over and over, to have something to fidget with.

"I had some arrangements to make. Identities to keep up. Proxies to provide instructions to. The sort of thing you're probably happier not knowing about in great detail."

"So you're back in Argentina?" It had taken nearly two weeks to drag that information out of Hannibal. Now that he has it, he likes picturing it, a place they might go together one day. His work never took him to Argentina, and he hasn't travelled much outside of work. There never seemed to be much point. 

"Spain. I'm considering a change of scenery but I haven't made up my mind."

"A move to celebrate your new status?"

He's getting better at reading Hannibal over the phone and he can tell it's amusement he's hearing. "You saw that, then. Or did Jack deliver the news personally?"

"He called. He's avoiding actually seeing me, but I think he wanted to hear my reaction."

"And what was your reaction?"

"I was aiming for nonchalant. Not sure I quite hit it. I told him that as far as I'm concerned you've been presumed dead since I woke up in the hospital, so the official declaration didn't change much. It was a short conversation."

"I'd imagine so. You're wearing it now?"

It takes Will a moment to follow the change in topics and realize they're back to the scarf. It's actually wound around his hand, but he quickly loops it twice around his neck, warm and soft at the base of his skull. He doesn't think about it, he just does it. "Yes. Randy's asleep so I might as well enjoy it before I have to hide it from him."

"Mm. Good." Will's pretty sure Hannibal just made a quick mental adjustment to his mental image of the two of them in a French garden. Will must be wearing the scarf now. Hannibal wouldn't have any problem imagining that, would have picked the color precisely to create the mental image he finds most pleasing. His aesthetics over Will's preferences, although in this case the deep blue tartan suits both purposes.

Will is suddenly hit by a brief but intense mental image - Hannibal standing in front of him, hands fisted in the two dangling ends of the scarf. Pulling it tight, pulling him close. Maybe to kiss, maybe to strangle, maybe just to watch his pupils blow out and his breath speed up, throat working beneath the steadily constricting blue fabric. 

He doesn't know if it's Hannibal's thought that he's picking up. Doesn't ask because the alternative, that it's purely his own want, is something he's not ready to think about. Also because he doesn't need to give Hannibal any ideas. The man has entirely too many ideas about him already.

“Will.” Hannibal’s voice brings him back to himself. “Where did you just go?”

“I was...was I…? Sorry. Got distracted for a minute there.”

“Should I let you go?” Hannibal’s not offended. They’re talking almost every day now, and the simple routine of it makes each individual call less freighted with importance. They might talk for a long time or just a few minutes, but there will be another call the next day or the next, so there’s no need to cram everything into one conversation. It’s nice. It’s also getting dangerously comfortable for Will, too easy to slip into confidences, to let down the drawbridges of the forts of his mind and just say whatever he’s thinking. It’s becoming too much like talking to himself or to Abigail.

“No. Stay a little while longer.” And maybe because his mind is already somewhere dangerous, and his walls already down, he asks something he’s been wondering about: “Tell me about the last one. The last person you killed. Did you take anyone in Paris?"

He hears Hannibal’s breath catch a little, but his voice is even as he responds: “You were there. Francis was the last. Well, last but one. I did have to snap a neck when I was leaving the country. But it wasn’t worth telling a story about. Just business.”

“All this time and you haven’t, since then?” For some reason Will had assumed Hannibal was cutting a swathe of murder through Argentina, dropping bodies left and right. It confuses his mental image to realize he was wrong. 

“I’ve stopped for periods of time before. It is something I’m capable of, when there’s a good reason. It’s a controllable compulsion. Most of the time. Especially when I have something else to focus my attention on.”

God, he’s calm. Will is...not.

“So Dolarhyde was the last. Maybe you do know how to stay under the radar.”

He feels more than hears the laugh. “I told you you were underestimating me. And you’ve given me many good reasons to behave myself. If you’re going to join me, it will be safer for you if I keep my activities minimal. Your safety is important to me.”

Will closes his eyes, drops his head, breathes in deep. How on earth did they get to this place from where they started? He doesn’t trust himself to say anything more than “That’s considerate of you.”

“I’m not saying never again, Will. I can’t and won’t promise that. I’m just saying I’m experimenting with focusing on you instead of other things. Also, I’m no hurry to replace that memory with a new one. Francis was exquisite. _You_ were exquisite.”

“Don't, Hannibal.” They haven’t talked about that night, not directly. It’s seemed too much. And somehow he’s landed them both right in the middle of it. 

“Do you want me to tell you _that_ story? What it was like for me?”

Yes. No. Will’s not sure he can handle that right now. Not that he doesn’t already know what that night was for Hannibal, but he’s not sure he can take hearing the words. ( _Or maybe you just want to wait. Maybe you just want to be looking him in the eyes when he tells you._ )

“No. Not today.” He wouldn’t be able to stop his breath from being a little ragged if he tried, so he doesn’t try. What he does, is step back from the cliff this time, steps them both back, before they can fall any further. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where my head was at. Tell me something less bloody. Tell me about your trip. Tell me what Paris was like.”

Hannibal’s obliging. Will doesn’t want to know what promise Hannibal heard in his voice that makes him willing to drop the line of conversation for the time being.

Hannibal spins him visions of Paris in winter, snow lying thick on statues, frozen rivers, overstuffed bookstores, warm cafes and tiny cups of hot strong coffee, streets they could walk together one day.

Will leaves the table while Hannibal talks to him, sprawls on the sofa, listens to Hannibal painting him pictures with words as deftly as any of his pencil sketches. 

He keeps the scarf on and plays idly with the fringe, with the hand that’s not holding the phone. He makes a mental note to open a post office box in another town, somewhere he can receive unmonitored mail.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He pulls off at the first hotel he sees and kills the engine, and sits there with Abigail watching headlights cut through the dark. People going to and from mysterious places in lives that don’t intersect with his. He imagines their lives are aggressively normal, with a minimum of cannibalism and only the normal quantities of death and heartbreak. He imagines that must be nice._
> 
> _Eventually, when he realizes he’s half asleep already there in the driver’s seat, he hauls his bag out of the car and goes to find himself a real bed. He’s not really sure yet what he’s doing in Boston, but anything that’s not home right now seems like a good idea._

As the world drags its feet slowly into spring, Will finds it necessary to leave the house once in a while. Doctor’s appointments and shopping trips, mostly. Trips to the animal rescue to drop off the occasional stray dog he finds abandoned in his woods.

The rescue people are upset that he’s no longer expanding his own pack, no longer a reliable home for otherwise-unplaceable dogs. He tells them he’s at his limit. He tells them he may actually be moving out of the area sometime soon, might need to try again to find homes for the ones in his care now that he’s trained and gentled them properly.

Freddie Lounds only calls a few times. She’s offering him obscene amounts of money for an interview - peddling trash must be working out well for her. He briefly considers whether there’s any way to spin such an offer for his or Hannibal’s benefit, but declines. He doesn’t burn the bridge, just in case he needs it later, but he does stop answering her calls. 

He’s not really answering anyone’s calls these days, except for Hannibal’s and the increasingly rare ones from Molly. They’ve stopped talking about when she might come home but they do still talk, once a week or so, and he doesn’t know how to nudge her toward the final letting-go in a way that will do her the least damage. Hannibal would know exactly how to do it. But there are some things they don’t discuss, and Molly is one of them. The whole point is to get her safely out of the walking blast radius that is whatever game Will is playing with Hannibal Lecter, and reminding Hannibal that she exists seems likely to lead to the exact opposite of that.

In the end, she does it herself, and Will never finds out exactly what causes Molly to hit the precise end of her internal tether. One day it just happens. They’re in the middle of an innocuous conversation about the weather when she sighs, and it’s the sigh he knows precedes a discussion that’s not going anywhere good.

Will braces himself for impact and waits for it. It hurts even more than he expected when she tells him, “This isn’t working.” 

He knew it was going to happen, did everything he could to let it happen, but it still hurts. “I know it’s not. What do we do?”

It’s a conversation they should be having in person so he imagines her there in the room, but the expression on her face just drives the dagger home harder so he lets her dissolve again almost immediately.

“I think maybe we walk away now before we turn each other bitter. Before Walter gets any more hurt. Yeah?”

The dagger twists somewhere inside him. It’s his own fault, he’s got no one to blame for this particular gutting but himself. The worst part, really, is that while he’d like to believe he was the idiot for ever thinking a normal life could work for him, he wasn’t. It almost worked. It could have worked. If he’d shut the door in Jack Crawford’s face when he came calling, it could have worked.

He realizes he’s been silent too long and nods, even though she can’t see it. “Yeah, that’s the right thing to do. The right thing sucks.”

She makes a noise that falls somewhere between laughter and tears. “It sucks a lot.”

“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t cover it. I’m sorry.”

Molly was always the better part of him and she rises to the occasion here too, pulling together what remains to them better than he can. “You did what we both agreed you would do. It ended the way it did. No regrets. We had it good for a while there. It’s more than most people get.”

“We did. But I regret the part where you got shot.”

The shaky laugh, again. “Okay, yeah, I regret that too. That also sucked. But not the rest.”

They’re quiet for several long moments, not quite ready to delve into practicalities, just watching the last moments fade.

Eventually Molly says, “I don’t know how we do this, exactly, but I’ll figure it out. We’ll talk about it in a few days, okay?” He knows that means “My parents hate you and they will pay for lawyers and settlements and anything else we need to break this up, pronto” but there’s no point in getting into it. He’s never going to see Molly’s parents again. And he’s going to give her as much of the money and the house and their life as she’ll take, because it’s the least he owes her. And because he’s pretty sure that one way or another he’s going to be breaking what remains of his life apart very soon, and there’s no one else to leave the pieces to.

“Sure. Let’s take a few days. We’ll figure it out. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”

She doesn’t say it back to him and Will wonders, not for the first time, how much she suspects or knows about all the things he never told her. What conclusions she’s drawn about what happened the night of Hannibal’s escape and how much those conclusions play into the end of their marriage.

They end the call pretty quickly after that. There’s not much else to say.

Being in the house suddenly feels intolerable. Everywhere Will looks are things that are going to have to be divided up, sold, given away, left behind. Everywhere he looks there are echoes.

Before Will can think about it too hard he’s upstairs, grabbing a duffel bag and throwing things into it almost at random - a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, the bare minimum to get out of his life for a few days. He calls their old petsitter and arranges for her to stop by for a few days and take care of the pack. He hesitates over his phones - he doesn’t really want to be in touch, not with anyone. He wants to just go out into the world and be someone else for a few days.

In the end he taps out a quick text to Hannibal: _Going to be out of touch for a few days. Nothing major, don’t get dramatic, I just need a change of scenery. Cooped up here too long. I’ll call Friday_. He drops the phone into his nightstand and shuts it away before it can light up with responses, and tries not to think about the string of texts and calls he’s likely to come back to.

Will feeds all the dogs and locks up, leaving the key in the mailbox for the pet sitter. He slings his bag into the backseat and he’s gone as fast as he can peel out of the driveway, which is pretty fast now that his leg is mostly back in working order after the months of physical therapy.

He opens the windows even though it’s really a little too cold for it and drives fast toward nowhere in particular, just to be moving, racing away fast enough that his thoughts won’t be able to keep up.

He’s not sure when Abigail appears in the passenger’s seat, doesn’t notice her at first until a strand of her hair whipping in the breeze catches his eye. He suppresses the urge to tell her to get her feet off the dashboard - he’s pretty sure ghost feet don’t actually leave scuff marks.

She doesn’t try to make conversation, she’s just there with him. It’s probably more helpful than it should be to have her there, gazing out the window, reminding him that even the most lost things in his life aren’t really ever entirely lost to him forever. She reaches out and pats his hand, gently, and he doesn’t feel the touch but is comforted all the same.

Around the time he passes through Boston it’s so late, and he’s so tired, that driving any further just seems like courting death. Will’s pretty sure he’s done courting death at this point, but even if he’s not, a stupid late-night highway accident isn’t the way he’s going to do it. For one thing, Hannibal would probably find some way to resurrect him just to yell at him and kill him all over again.

He pulls off at the first hotel he sees and kills the engine, and sits there with Abigail watching headlights cut through the dark. People going to and from mysterious places in lives that don’t intersect with his. He imagines their lives are aggressively normal, with a minimum of cannibalism and only the normal quantities of death and heartbreak. He imagines that must be nice.

Eventually, when he realizes he’s half asleep already there in the driver’s seat, he hauls his bag out of the car and goes to find himself a real bed. He’s not really sure yet what he’s doing in Boston, but anything that’s not home right now seems like a good idea. He’ll figure out later what he’s there for.

He’s not sure what the night hotel clerk sees in his face but it must be some vaguely terrifying combination of heartbreak, exhaustion, a certain amount of scruffy wildness from how little he’s been bothering keeping up appearances with no one to keep them up for, the scar on his cheek, and perhaps a recognition of his face from the tabloids. Whatever it is, he’s grateful for it because there’s no attempt at polite conversation. He’s checked in quickly and with a minimum of eye contact or forced conversation.

He collapses into the hotel bed fully dressed, pausing only to kick off his shoes, and is asleep in moments. He does note with a vague gratitude before he goes under that Abigail has followed him and is sitting in a chair by the window, silhouetted against the streetlights, watching over him so he won’t be completely alone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will knows he should be stopping to think about this. Maybe this is a terrible idea, probably Hannibal shouldn’t even be thinking about coming back into the States, probably Will’s going to find himself arrested for some sort of aiding and abetting charge, this is all ill-advised, he should put a stop to this right now._
> 
> _He doesn’t put a stop to it._

Will surfaces late in the afternoon with an unpleasant sense of not knowing where he is. It takes a few moments to piece together the pertinent facts: 

  * His marriage is really and truly over now but for the paperwork.
  * He panicked and took off without stopping to consider the ramifications.
  * Hannibal is probably going to freak out and show up in his living room if he drops off the grid for more than a couple of days with so little warning.
  * With Will’s luck, Jack will choose this week to make one of his unpredictable though increasingly rare house calls.
  * If both of those things collide, Will’s going to come home to a crime scene in his living room and he has no idea who the survivor is going to be. Or if there will even be one.



All things considered, he has not handled this situation well. 

If he still had a therapist, he’d probably be scheduling an emergency session right now. Instead, he presses his face into the pillow, groans, and considers trying very hard to just sleep through the next day, week, month, or perhaps year. Maybe he’ll be someone else when he wakes up.

In lieu of that being a realistic option, he forces himself out of bed and into a shower. Then he forces the hotel’s in-room coffeemaker to produce a cup of some fairly revolting brown liquid that bears only a passing resemblance to coffee. He hopes it may still serve as a caffeine delivery system, if not an appetizing one.

Going home is probably the sensible thing to do but not particularly appealing. The urge to be _somewhere else_ besides the house he shared with Molly and Walter is still with him, even while he can acknowledge that he may not have gone about it the best possible way. Will thinks it over when he’s feeling a bit more awake, and decides to go ahead and stay for a few days. But he’ll get a new phone and let Hannibal know he’s okay before a bloodbath can occur in his house. He was almost due to change phone numbers anyway, they’ve been trying to do that every couple of months to err on the side of caution. 

Feeling a little more settled, he realizes that he’s starving and decides to venture out into the world in search of food and of whatever it is he came looking for, peace or distraction or just change.

Will spends the evening wandering the streets of Boston, feeling like an alien. Between the hospital and his chosen exile from the world, it’s been a long time since he was anywhere with this many people, this much noise, so many sounds and lights. It’s been a while since he had to put up the walls in his mind to avoid accidentally slipping into the minds of any of dozens of people he passes on the street, since he had to work so hard to avoid eye contact that feels like an assault.

He ducks into the first quiet-looking restaurant he finds just to get out of the stream of sensory overload and finds himself briskly tucked away in a corner booth with a plate of bolognese and a glass of wine. He relaxes a little once the food is delivered and the waiter leaves him alone, requisite social interaction done for the time being. It occurs to him that he’s going a little feral in all these months alone. That if he’s going to run away with Hannibal Lecter he probably needs to make up his mind and do it soon while there’s still some chance of him re-learning to function in the outside world, before he falls completely into his own head and never comes out again.

For now he enjoys the dinner, which is better that most of what he’s made for himself lately, and watches people. It’s okay watching them when they’re not looking at him. 

He watches a little boy wiggle in his high chair and doesn’t let himself think _Walter_. He watches a young couple awkward, perhaps on a first date. Spaghetti sauce goes flying and there’s flustered laughter and he hopes their messy first date will be a story they’ll tell in years to come. 

Then he watches a man snap at the waiter over a minute offense and thinks _rude_ and almost hears the sounds of screeching brakes as his entire body tenses. Waiting to see what exactly his own response to that is. It’s a little like poking at the place where a tooth has been pulled; you know you shouldn’t, but you can’t quite stop yourself from probing the spot to see what your own reaction will be. Will it hurt? Will there be anything there? _Will you have the slightest desire to kill a man for an everyday act of rudeness?_

He’s as relieved to find he does not apparently want to dissect the man with a butter knife, as he is appalled that he even had to ask the question. Apparently he still has some sense of where he ends and Hannibal begins, but the fact that he wasn’t quite sure until the question came up is a matter of some concern.

Will finishes his dinner and pays up and gets out of there, spilling back onto the streets where there’s still noise and overload, but at least it’s darker and easier to avoid eyes. On his way back to the hotel he stops off and picks up a new prepaid cell phone. However overwhelming being back in a city is, it is refreshing not to have to keep an eye over his shoulder for a tail. He hasn't seen one in weeks and is fairly sure Jack's dialing back on watching over him, but even so it's good to move freely for once without that concern in the back of his mind.

When he gets back to the hotel he leaves the new phone to charge for a bit while he stares out the window at an unfamiliar view, his mind a whirl of the rude man at dinner, of Molly, of Hannibal, of Francis Dolarhyde. When the phone has a bit of power stored up, Will sends a text message to the number he's memorized: _New number. I'm out of town for a few days but fine. Call if you need to._

He expects a call but instead the text message notification buzzes after a few minutes. _Thank you for letting me know._ And a few moments later another buzz, as if Hannibal had needed to pause to decide whether he was really going to send the second part: _I was worried._

_I’m sorry. My head’s in a weird place right now. Not about us. Needed a change of scenery. I didn't mean to worry you._

The phone goes silent for a few moments and then rings, startling Will in the quiet of his hotel room. “...hello?”

“Are you under the impression that I’m angry at you?” Hannibal doesn’t sound angry. He sounds something like worried, maybe also a little amused, in that way that Hannibal always seems to have at least two unrelated trains of thought going at once.

“Maybe? I don’t actually remember what I said yesterday before I left. I was kind of in a hurry. Walls closing in. Panic attack. I’m worried I was rude.” 

“Will.” There’s a sigh on the line. “I’m not angry. If I'm anything, it's disappointed. I wish you’d given me some notice. If you’re somewhere away from your home, I could have come to meet you.” And now there’s a third note in the music of Hannibal’s voice and that note sounds an awful lot like yearning.

It hadn’t really occurred to Will in all this time, maybe because he hasn’t really been in any shape to travel until recently with his various injuries, that what Hannibal’s suggesting was even a possibility. That if he could have slipped out from Jack’s intermittent surveillance, they could have met somewhere else. Had an actual conversation in the same room. Tried to figure out what the hell this dance they’re doing is. Will groans. “I’m an idiot. I didn’t even think. I didn’t, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Are you able to stay where you are for a few days? Where are you?”

“Boston. Maybe? I only have the dog sitter lined up for a couple of days, but she could probably do it for longer. I could call her.”

“Call her.” Hannibal’s words follow so fast on the heels of his that they’re almost talking over each other, there's a giddy feeling to it, and Will knows he should be stopping to think about this. Maybe this is a terrible idea, probably Hannibal shouldn’t even be thinking about coming back into the States, probably Will’s going to find himself arrested for some sort of aiding and abetting charge, this is all ill-advised, he should put a stop to this right now. 

He doesn’t put a stop to it. 

If he stops to think about this he won’t let it happen and he wants it to happen, wants it fiercely considering it wasn’t even a possibility in his mind two minutes ago. “Can you really drop everything like that?” is all he asks. 

“Done.” It’s apparently that easy. Or that important. “Tell me when you’re sure about the dogs, and I’ll make travel arrangements. If you want me to. Just ask, and I'll come to you.”

Will feels slightly surreal, not quite sure what’s happened in the last five minutes. “I’m in this shitty little hotel, I think you might die if you saw the carpet…”

“We’d have to change hotels anyway. Even if you weren’t followed, you’re under your own name. Let’s not be completely foolish. I’ll make reservations under one of my aliases. Somewhere with a nice carpet.” Hannibal’s laughing at him now, but Will thinks there’s an undercurrent of breathlessness in the laughter, like maybe he’s not the only one who’s feeling a little sucker-punched at the possibility that in a day or two they may be standing in the same room, instead of filtering themselves through the thin medium of a cell phone connection.

Will takes a deep breath, falls, he's always falling, there's apparently no bottom to this, and asks. "Please. Come to Boston. I’m going to go. Call the dog sitter. I’ll let you know what she says.”

“Do that.” There’s the beep of the line disconnecting and Hannibal’s gone.

Will’s left in his hotel room staring down at the chunk of metal and plastic in his hand in a certain amount of disbelief.

What the hell just happened?


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn't want to be in his right mind, he feels good in whoever's mind he's currently in. He steps in, sways a little, backward, forward, closing in on Hannibal. He watches Hannibal's face change, registering his proximity. He wonders what mixture of booze and loose-limbed warmth and nerves and attraction is curling out of his pores and registering with Hannibal's acute sense of smell._
> 
> _He wonders what he can do, right now, what would be permitted or denied him if he asked for it._

Will eases the door open with a bit of trepidation. Hannibal being Hannibal, he’s not sure what to expect. It seems like a good hotel - nicer than anywhere Will would bother staying, but not so crazy-over-the-top that it might reside on an FBI watchlist of “places Hannibal Lecter, known aesthete and all-around person unable to dial anything at all down a notch, might show up if he were to come back to the United States.” But appearances are deceiving, and he’s a little worried the room is going to be some sort of Baroque fantasy that will give him nightmares.

It turns out to be like the hotel itself, comfortably and attractively appointed but not ostentatiously so, discreet and quiet, probably a lot more expensive than it actually looks. A person could hole up in here, live on room service, and not have to leave for quite a while. A person could disappear into this suite.

He’d only sort of registered the word “suite” on checking in and nodded, going along with whatever arrangements Hannibal had made. But looking around now he notes there’s a living room area, a little kitchenette, a bathroom with a tub you could probably swim laps in, two bedrooms. Will doesn’t think about that too hard, but the word _tactful_ does flit through his mind. _Courteous_. 

It occurs to Will that it probably would have been no more expensive to get them two completely separate rooms. It occurs to him that _presumptuous_ might also be the correct word here. It occurs to him that the presumption on Hannibal’s part, if that’s what it was, wasn’t wrong. Had he been given the choice, he might not have been brave enough to request the suite, but it would have been what he wanted. As few walls between them as possible, after all this time.

It occurs to Will that he may be slightly hysterical, tired, giddy, _something_ that’s making him unfamiliar to himself. He wonders what this unfamiliar self might do.

He’s not expecting Hannibal until tomorrow - apparently even Hannibal lacks the power to magically teleport from Argentina in the space of a single day on no notice - so he’s at loose ends for the rest of the day. He drops his duffel bag in the smaller of the two bedrooms and considers unpacking it, but that would imply a sort of permanence to this hotel stay that seems inappropriate. Plus he only has the small handful of things he tossed into his bag on his way out the door. He hadn’t intended to stay away from home for long.

In quick succession things occur to Will: If he’s extending his stay, and doesn’t want to spend it doing laundry, he might need a few things. It would make Hannibal delirious with joy if Will waited another day and let Hannibal take him shopping tomorrow. He doesn’t particularly want to give Hannibal that satisfaction, for a variety of reasons. And Jack’s antennae are going to go up if he gets wind that Will vanished without warning for a week and came back looking like, well, what he would look like if he let Hannibal get involved in expanding his wardrobe.

So that’s decided. He has a way to spend the afternoon and evening now; he’ll go out and get a few more changes of clothing. Maybe a haircut, he thinks ruefully, glancing at his shaggy reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Maybe a few groceries for the kitchenette.

Will refuse to turn around at the laugh he hears from behind him, Abigail perched on the edge of the bed reading his mind. “Shut up, Abigail.” He thinks he might be blushing a little bit. Can a figment of your imagination make you blush? Can a figment tell you’re blushing?

“No way. It’s adorable. You’re nesting.”

“I am _not_ nesting. I hate doing laundry in hotels and room service is a pain in the ass. Shut up.”

“Whatever you say, Will.” She sounds totally unconvinced. “Hey, this is nice.” He can see in the mirror that she’s bouncing a little bit on the thick mattress. “Much better than the last place. This is what it would have been like, I guess.”

Will still doesn’t turn around but he does meet her gaze in the mirror. So collected, always, even when she’s saying things that slide right through his ribs and into his heart. Because she’s right. This is what it would have been like, if they’d all run away together all those years ago. It would have been a different room somewhere else, but Will and Abigail would have been there together, talking over their days, waiting for Hannibal to come home. But she would have been alive, and Will would have fewer scars, literal and metaphorical.

There’s nothing to say in response. Will blinks and when he opens his eyes again she’s gone.

He heads back out into the midday sunlight. 

The afternoon passes quickly. He buys a few changes of clothes, determinedly choosing only the sorts of things he already wears. He is _not_ dressing up for Hannibal Lecter. Although he does get a haircut, closing his eyes to avoid the possibility of the hair stylist trying to make conversation. She makes a few awkward attempts but gives up soon enough, and he gets out of there as quickly as he can, feeling a warm breeze on the newly-exposed nape of his neck, his whole head feeling lighter.

He goes back to the hotel and hangs up his new things, pointedly ignoring Abigail’s “nesting” comment. It’s not _nesting_ , it’s just...stuff, that needs to go somewhere, and cramming it into the duffel bag seems silly when there’s a closet right there.

Having worked through his chore list, Will flips idly through hotel cable channels for a while and then gives up and goes downstairs to the hotel restaurant’s bar. The dinner crowd is only just starting to filter in, which is nice, he has the place mostly to himself. He takes a place at the farther, darker end of the bar where he can people watch with the least chance that anyone’s actually going to want to talk to him, and orders some food and a beer.

The bartender’s bored before her evening rush, and after his second beer Will loosens up enough to start taking the bait on some of her conversational attempts. They chat a little bit about the city, the weather, a basketball game on the TV over the bar about which Will has very little to say.

The bar’s starting to fill up and she’s busy for a while tending to customers, but eventually she wanders back over to resume conversation and ask what Will’s doing in town. He mutters something about meeting someone, “a friend, he’s, um, a friend”. The bartender grins and something in her easy manner reminds him briefly of Bev as she asks whether the “he” in question is a boyfriend.

Will mumbles, and denies, and she cracks up and replies, “Oh, one of those. The complicated ones. You’re gonna need another drink, then.”

She’s right. He switches to whiskey.

That’s probably where the mistake lies, because he loses track a little bit after that. The refills keep coming, and he relaxes further into his corner where no one’s really paying attention to him, and unbuttons a button or two at his throat because it’s getting warm, and begins to share his observations of other people in the bar with the bartender _sotto voce_ when she has a moment to come back over to his corner. 

That’s one of the things about being Will Graham - it’s hard _not_ to make observations, and he’s a little out of practice at keeping his observations to himself. So he notices who steps into the bar and quietly slips a wedding ring off and into a pocket. He observes courting rituals and slips behind people’s eyes to see what they’re thinking and just knows who’s going home with who, and is turning out to be right most of the time. He sees the coiled tension of a woman at a table while the conversation she’s having with her friend seems perfectly civil, but is not at all surprised when the tension explodes into a low but fierce-sounding fight ten minutes later.

He’s cracking the bartender up with the running commentary and she’s keeping the drinks coming and he’s going to have a headache in the morning. But at this exact moment he’s not thinking about Molly and he’s not thinking about Hannibal arriving tomorrow and he’s not being a total social weirdo and it’s, frankly, kind of the most fun he’s had in a while.

There’s no telling how long it would go on except that the next time she comes back to him with a glass in her hand it’s water with a lemon slice and she’s got that grin on her face again. She plunks the glass down and informs him, “Someone wants to buy you a drink, he says you look like you need to slow down a little. I told him the water was free so he said he’d send you the water and cover the rest of your tab. Cute. Accent. Good hair. I’d go for it, if I were you. If your ‘complication’ allows.”

She’s nodding down to the far end of the bar and he doesn’t actually need to look, he knew it as soon as he heard the word “accent.” But he turns his head anyway, and his vision lags a moment behind, a little blurry because just how much _did_ he drink anyway? And there’s Hannibal.

Except it shouldn’t be, because Hannibal isn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow. So maybe he’s having a hallucination. Except apparently his hallucination talked to the bartender, and paid his bar tab, and is overly concerned about his hydration. And his hallucination is staring at him from the other end of the bar like it wants to devour him in any of a number of different ways. And his hallucination is, oh god, he’d forgotten or maybe just had never really been in the proper frame of mind to appreciate before, _beautiful_. 

Will closes his eyes and tries to get the world to hold still and tells the bartender, “That _is_ my 'complication'.” 

He re-opens his eyes and lifts the water glass in a toast to Hannibal, who hasn’t moved a muscle, is just waiting and watching him like he’s the only other person in the crowded room. He drains the glass and slams it back down on the bar before she can even respond with a laugh, “Lucky you!”

He’s not really listening. She’s dismissed from his mind as if she’d never existed. He’s up and moving and doesn’t quite remember the steps between one end of the bar and the other. He’s just there, suddenly, and he tells himself it’s the effects of the way-too-much-alcohol that make him reach out to touch Hannibal’s forearm where it rests on the bar. Just to be absolutely sure he’s really there. Which he is, warm and solid underneath Will’s fingertips and looking at him in a way that one person just should _not_ look at another in a public room, it might make him blush again if he weren’t already warm and flushed from the drinks.

“Hey. You’re _here_ .” _Brilliant opening statement, Graham_ . “I didn’t think you’d be here yet.”

“Obviously.” Hannibal rises from his stool and steers Will toward the door with a hand on his upper arm, amused but impatient, grabbing the handle of his suitcase with his free hand. “I made it onto an earlier flight on standby. I hope I’m not interrupting your fun.”

Will shakes his head mutely, blinking against the sudden brighter light as they reach the lobby. It’s much quieter out here and suddenly he can hear his own heartbeat, fast and loud. He’s unsteady on his feet and Hannibal can feel it, pulls him in a little closer to keep him upright. Will doesn’t protest, just lets himself be led to the elevator. He squints at the buttons for a moment until they resolve into numbers and he can hit the “4.”

He can feel Hannibal observing this and decides he can either be embarrassed or unapologetic about being caught in this less-than-entirely-with-it state, and the latter sounds like more fun. He pulls himself up straight and attempts to look dignified.

This elicits a laugh from Hannibal, which wasn’t quite the intended effect, but it’s also not an unpleasant one. Hannibal touches the side of his face gently, on his healed scar, and Will automatically leans into the touch just a little. “This isn’t precisely how I had envisioned our next meeting, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “But it’s not without its charms." 

Charming. Will can be charming, for Hannibal. He's figured that out in all these months of their conversations, it's just a little hard to remember when the safe distance of a phone call has suddenly become the close proximity of an elevator. But he’s pretty sure he can still do charming. He lets himself sway as the elevator rises, lets the sway take him in closer to Hannibal, looks up through his eyelashes, and says, "I suppose you expected me to be all alone upstairs all day and all night, waiting miserably for you."

"That may have been an unfair expectation," Hannibal allows, eyes bright with amusement. He looks like he's thinking about leaning in to close the rest of the narrowed distance between them, but the elevator door opens and Will steps back and out without looking where he's going, not breaking eye contact. Eye contact is easier when he feels like this, like his head's light and empty of all its customary trouble and worry, like everything is easy, like for once all the pieces of his life are where they should be.

Hannibal follows him out of the elevator and then Will does break eye contact to lead the way to their suite. He tries very hard to walk a straight line down the hall and mostly succeeds, and chooses to ignore what may be a hint of a laugh from behind him.

They let themselves into the suite and Hannibal appraises it coolly, apparently deciding it will do. Will takes the opportunity of attention deflected from himself to conduct his own appraisal, a chance to actually look at Hannibal properly.

He's tanned, his hair longer than Will remembers. He's wearing what counts as casual clothing for him, a lightweight blue sweater and dark slacks, not a tie or waistcoat in sight. It's slightly unnerving. He looks familiar and unfamiliar all at once. He looks -- oh. Will pauses in his appraisal as he realizes that Hannibal has stopped looking around the suite and is instead watching Will watching him, head cocked to the side, the same devouring look from downstairs but perhaps a bit more restrained now.

Hannibal gets another glass of water and presses it into Will's hand. "Drink more. You're going to have a headache in the morning from the looks of you, but we can try to minimize it."

Will considers protesting just for the sake of being contrary but he knows it's good advice. He does allow himself a slight glare and an acerbic "whatever you say, Doctor Lecter," before he drinks the water and hands the glass back.

Hannibal puts the glass on the countertop and leans back against it for a minute, posture relaxed but eyes watchful and considering. His hands are resting on the edge of the countertop. His hands are...wow. Will had forgotten about his hands. He’s a little mesmerized by them.

"It's good to see you, Will," Hannibal finally says, and Will knows that's not what he actually wants to say. He can almost hear the words beneath the words.

Will nods, and considers saying something equally calm and polite and postponing any actual conversation until the next day when he's in his right mind. Except he doesn't want to be in his right mind, he feels good in whoever's mind he's currently in. He steps in, sways a little, backward, forward, closing in on Hannibal. He watches Hannibal's face change, registering his proximity. He wonders what mixture of booze and loose-limbed warmth and nerves and attraction is curling out of his pores and registering with Hannibal's acute sense of smell. 

He wonders what he can do, right now, what would be permitted or denied him if he asked for it.

The world pauses for a moment, teeters on the brink of something irrevocable, and then Will reluctantly steps back out of arm's reach. He doesn't trust himself right now and this is too important to fuck up.

Hannibal nods, an unspoken agreement to Will's unspoken decision, and turns away briskly. "I could use a shower after a day of travel. Can I leave you unattended without worrying I'll come out to find you've gone back downstairs and started dancing on the bar?"

"I am nowhere near _that_ drunk--" Will bites off his protest when he realizes Hannibal is (mostly) joking, and scowls. "Yes. Go take a shower. I'm fine."

Hannibal takes his suitcase into the larger bedroom, rummages through it and removes a few things, then disappears into the bathroom. Will hears the water start and then he takes off his shoes and crawls onto Hannibal's bed. Maybe the other room just seems far away. Maybe he's only intending to rest for a moment. Maybe this is the only place he wants to be. He doesn't interrogate his own motives. He just stretches out, cool linen against his heat-flushed cheek, closing his eyes against the light and the faint spinning of the world around him. 

He relaxes into the mattress and is nearly asleep before the water turns off, but his sense of time has gotten so wonky he's not sure if it was a long shower or if he's tired enough to have fallen asleep almost instantly.

He doesn't open his eyes when Hannibal comes back into the room, but he hears a slight break in Hannibal's step, a little catch in his breath, and he allows himself a single sleepy smile. "Can I stay?"

Hannibal's being _courteous_ again. _Tactful_ . "Of course. I can take the other room."

Will does open his eyes then, barely moves but waves the fingers of one hand at the snowy expanse of the rest of the bed. "Plenty of room. Stay with me."

Hannibal goes expressionless. "Are you still going to think this is a good idea tomorrow?"

"Only one way to find out." He's doing his best to be charming again and he can tell it's working. Hannibal will give in with the slightest bit of encouragement and he knows exactly how to supply it. "I really miss having company that's not a dog. Stay. " Will knows exactly what he's doing when he adds: "Please?" He’s not quite fluttering his eyelashes but he’s not far off, either.

Hannibal relents wordlessly. It's all in the slope of his shoulders beneath the t shirt and pajama pants he's changed into. He doesn't even have to say anything.

Will grins, happy to have won the round even though it's the outcome they were both hoping for, so the victory is mostly symbolic. He closes his eyes again and lets himself drift, listening to quiet domestic noises as Hannibal moves around the room, hanging something in the closet, unzipping something, a clean scent of shampoo and toothpaste wafting off him when he passes close to Will.

Will manages to stay awake long enough to feel the bed shift under Hannibal's weight and he smiles again. He mumbles "goodnight" and lets go, sliding into darkness, using the last bit of energy to reach out again and skim Hannibal’s arm with his hand. It’s the faintest touch, but the sensation follows him down into sleep as if every whorl and loop of his fingerprint is burning itself into Hannibal’s skin.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn’t touch Hannibal but he lies close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the man’s skin in all the places they’re not -- quite -- touching._
> 
> _He matches the rhythm of his breath to Hannibal’s, steady and regular, and it does the trick to ease him back into slumber. He slips gently off the edge of the world._

_It’s some ungodly hour in the morning, I’m in Boston, my name is Will Graham right now but I might need to start coming up with an alias soon, and I’m in bed with Hannibal Lecter._

There’s a sentence to wake up the mind.

Will hasn’t moved since he woke a few moments ago, other than letting his eyes open to look at the time. He can’t see the clock from his current position and isn’t ready to move, but the light filtering through the curtains has an early-morning sort of feel to it. 

His head’s pounding, no surprise, and his mouth tastes like last night’s excess. He must have tossed and turned a bit during the night, popping a few buttons on the shirt he fell asleep wearing. But he’s got a nice view; Hannibal’s turned away from him, breathing regular and slow, the back of his shirt hiked up just a little, showing skin, inviting touch. Will does not touch. But he thinks about it.

Instead he slides out of the bed as carefully as he can, and Hannibal stirs but does not wake. Will heads into the bathroom to brush his teeth and finds, with some amusement, that there’s a bottle of painkillers left out on the counter. He gets the message: _You’re going to need these, idiot_. He takes the bottle into the kitchen and pours two glasses of water, downs one along with three of the pills.

He takes the other glass back into the bedroom and places it gently on the nightstand on Hannibal’s side of the bed so he’ll see it when he wakes up. He wants Hannibal to know that Will got up, moved around for a while, could have taken the opportunity to switch back to the other bedroom, and didn’t. He wants Hannibal to know that Will came back to him.

It’s possible, Will allows to himself and to Abigail if she’s listening, that he’s become a tiny bit manipulative. 

He crawls back into bed to try for a few more hours of sleep, some time for the medicine to do its work and tame the throbbing in his temples. He doesn’t touch Hannibal but he lies close, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the man’s skin in all the places they’re not -- quite -- touching.

He matches the rhythm of his breath to Hannibal’s, steady and regular, and it does the trick to ease him back into slumber. He slips gently off the edge of the world.

When he wakes up again it's to an empty bed and a sound of hushed voices and clinking china. Room service. He takes stock of himself cautiously and decides he's more or less in one piece, headache just barely there around the edges of his brain. He can ignore it. He takes his time getting out of bed and attempting to de-rumple himself slightly, dawdling until he hears the room service guy leave.

Then he makes his way out into the living area, where Hannibal's fussing around moving plates from the room service tray onto the little table. Will's pretty sure it's killing Hannibal that he can't produce some sort of feathery-predatory-skull-filled centerpiece out of thin air for their first breakfast together in years. Poor Hannibal, lover of pomp and ceremony, reduced to attempting to re-plate hotel breakfast for the occasion. Unbidden, a thought flits through Will’s mind: _The things we do for love_. 

He wanders over, holds out a hand, and looks pathetic for a moment until Hannibal gets the message and pours him a cup of coffee. He hands it over with a mock-stern admonition: “Have you forgotten how to say please?” They brush fingers and Will's not sure if it's intentional. 

“I’m not awake enough for manners yet, Hannibal.” Or, more truthfully, he’s just poking at the unfamiliar shape of the two of them in a room, together, without barriers. He’s trying to determine just what they add up to. He’s not sure yet, but he’s sure it’s a little bit fun to tease Hannibal, that he’s gotten used to doing so from the safety of his home, and that he’s both interested and a little nervous to see if there are consequences to doing it in person.

Hannibal shakes his head and continues to arrange breakfast. “It’s never too early for manners. But I’ll excuse yours on the grounds of the night you had.”

Will drops into a chair and snatches a piece of bacon off a plate, gesturing with it before he takes a bite. “You make it sound much more debauched than it was. I had a few drinks in the hotel bar. I _thought_ I had an evening on my own to kill. _You_ rudely showed up unannounced. I’m a grownup and I get to drink if I want to. Shut up and tell me what’s for breakfast.”

Something glints in the back of Hannibal’s eyes and Will wonders if he pushed that one a bit too far, but he’s pretty sure it’s amusement. Or at least mostly amusement.

Will decides not to push his luck any further at the moment and leans forward, elbows on the table, to catch Hannibal’s attention. “Really, though. I’m glad you’re here. It’s amazing that you’re here. Good morning. Thank you for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome. See? Not so difficult.” 

It turns out that Hannibal, true to form, has ordered far more than two people can possibly eat, a variety of things to make sure Will has options. Not for the first time, Will wonders about Hannibal’s childhood, if his tendency to excess is an attempt to make up for some sort of terrible deprivation, or if that’s too facile an explanation. This particular morning doesn’t seem like the time for that conversation, though, so he just accepts a loaded plate. Over breakfast they chat about Hannibal’s flight, Will’s first two days in the city, and for some reason there’s a brief digression into Bach. Nothing too weighty. 

They pile the leftovers into the kitchenette’s fridge and stack up the plates for room service to collect later, and then return to the table to pretty much just stare at each other for a long minute or two before Will asks, “So… what are we doing here? I don't know what we're supposed to do now."

Hannibal’s nonchalant in that very specific way that Will knows covers up for a total lack of nonchalance. “Whatever you want. I came to see you. I was worried about whatever made you run. This doesn’t have to be anything more than that. We can go play tourist. We can stay here and talk. The only thing I insist upon,” he adds with a suspicious eye at the dirty dishes, “is buying some groceries this afternoon. I would like to make dinner for us.”

“We can do that.” It feels daring and dangerous, just the idea of going out into the world with Hannibal at his side. There’s no particular reason to think anyone here would recognize them, and yet. Surely this is a fairly innocuous start, a trip to the grocery store. 

“May I offer a suggestion in the meanwhile?”

The first response to rise to Will’s lips is _could I possibly stop you if I tried?_ but he suppresses the urge to be flip. “Sure.”

“I think we’re both finding this terrain a little uncertain to navigate, being here together after all this time. I wonder if it might be helpful to close your eyes and treat this like one of our phone calls, for a little while.”

“Sounds like a therapist’s suggestion,” Will says, but he’s turning over the idea in his head. Hannibal’s not wrong. There’s something simple and easy in the two of them just being voices, something that’s suddenly gotten a lot more layered and confused when he has to think about body language and when he has to navigate the way Hannibal looks at him.

“I am what I am, Will. I can only change so far, even for you. I really do think it would be helpful.”

“You might be right. Hang on.” Will drains the last of his coffee and goes over to the living area, where he sprawls out on the sofa, mimicking the posture he often has when on the phone at home. He’s missing the jingle and warmth of a dog lying on his feet, but otherwise, this feels about right. He points at the chair opposite. “You too. I’m going to feel like an idiot if I’m the only one doing this.”

He waits to close his eyes until he sees Hannibal settled into the chair, then settles in, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Okay. So. Hi."

"Hello, Will." He can _hear_ Hannibal's smile and he's loathe to admit it but he was right, this was a good idea. "Shall we return to your question about what we're doing?"

"In a minute. Tell me something first."

"What?"

"Anything. Tell me how you were able to come here so quickly. Didn't you have things to take care of at home?"

"I had a few clients. I cancelled them." Hannibal seems to be running some sort of antique appraiser business; Will's never asked for too many of the details but they've occasionally talked about a particularly spectacular find or a terrible client. "None of them were particularly important. I cleared several days. And I didn't have an entire pack of canines to arrange care for."

"I suppose. You know that's going to be a problem for us, right?"

"If we ever make it to a point where we are free to travel together and dog ownership is our biggest problem, I will consider myself one of the most fortunate of men."

And _there_ it is in the voice, all the warmth and honesty of their phone conversations, what had come so easily in the intimacy of bodiless voices. With his eyes closed, Hannibal's voice feels like home.

Will feels like he has to meet that honesty with some of his own. "I started talking to the rescue about finding other homes for them. They're working on it. I think most of them will find good places." There's a silence, then. "It's hard. They were all I had for such a long time."

"They're not all you have now."

"No."

There's silence again but it's a more comfortable one than the one at the table earlier. Will wriggles around a little into a more comfortable position. "I'm guessing you want to know why I'm here in the first place."

"I would like to know if you're willing to tell me." There's a sudden tension in Hannibal's voice and Will wants to open his eyes, but instead presses his arm over them to make things even darker.

"We haven't talked about my family. I don't think we should. But you probably do need to know this much. So - it was Molly. It's over with her. It's been over, but not explicitly so. It is now. There's so much to be done. Paperwork. Selling the house. I just, I panicked. I needed to not be there. I needed somewhere new."

Hannibal's quiet for so long that Will fears he may have left the room, is about to open his eyes and check, when he hears the Hannibal’s voice. It sounds strained, worried. "I'm sorry you're in pain. I wish you could have come with me and not had to face any of this."

"But you're not that sorry. You’re glad for anything that severs my attachments to my old life." He hears the slightly bitter twist to his own words and knows they’re true.

"You sound like you're saying goodbye to your life. I'd like to know what that means. Do you know yet, yourself?"

Will gives the question thought, to see if his answer has changed since seeing Hannibal again. Has he gotten the push he needs to make a decision which way to fall, into a life with Hannibal or the other way into a life alone? He finds himself still wavering. It’s hard to imagine voluntarily giving up identity and freedom for a life on the run, albeit one with its own kind of freedom. It’s hard to imagine walking out of this room and never seeing Hannibal again. "No. I wish I did. I'm tired of thinking about it. I’d like to not think for a while. Can we not think about this? Just for today.”

Will opens his eyes and turns his head to find Hannibal’s done the same. They regard each other for a long moment and even sober, the eye contact is fine. It’s Hannibal and they’re so far into each other’s heads by now that it’s not much different from meeting his own eyes in a mirror. 

Hannibal inclines his head slightly and then stands up. “As you wish. Distraction, then. Let’s go for a walk. Then perhaps the fine arts museum, if you will indulge me?”

“I think I can survive a little art.” Will knows, as surely as if it’s already a memory of something past, that he’s not going to remember a single piece of the art. He’s going to watch Hannibal seeing the art. He’s going to watch Hannibal get lost in it. He’s pretty sure he can occupy himself for quite a long time that way.

He holds out a hand and lets Hannibal help him up from the sofa, lets the contact linger. It’s not really fair of him to do this when he’s not entirely sure yet what he wants from it, but their relationship hasn’t ever really been about _fair_ and he’s not sorry. 

He showers and dresses quickly, and they leave the hotel together in search of distraction.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The elevator doors slide open with a little ping and he steps out, sticks a foot in the way of the door sensors to hold them open for Hannibal, and jerks his head toward their suite. “Don’t stare at me like that, I know perfectly well when you’re thinking about--” killing and eating anyone who’s ever touched me “--what you were thinking about. Come on. We’re home.”_

The first few minutes are nerve-racking. There’s no reason to think anyone in the world knows they’re here, but Will’s still expecting sirens. Flashing lights. Jack Crawford jumping out from behind a tree triumphant at finally having caught the two of them together. He’s tense, head down, eyes darting about, mouth suddenly full of the sharp metallic taste that sometimes precedes a panic attack, but he’s fighting it as hard as he can.

Hannibal is more at ease, but then he’s had much longer to get used to flying under the radar. It takes him a few minutes to notice Will’s silence and hunted expression, and to take him gently by the elbow and steer him off to the side of the sidewalk, out of the flow of traffic. He searches Will’s expression: “Do we need to go back inside? Do you want to sit down?”

Will takes a few deep breaths, doing the stupid breathing exercise he hates but that usually works to slow his overreactive nervous system, tries not to jump at the sound of a car door slamming. “I’ll be all right. Just need a minute. This is...a lot at once. I have medication but I didn’t think to do anything as sensible as bringing it.”

Hannibal winces and Will thinks he catches a stray bit of emotion there. It’s not so much that he regrets any of the myriad ways he’s tortured Will over the years. He was only ever doing what he thought needed doing at the time, and Hannibal is not a creature who regrets or second-guesses. Not exactly. But Will thinks he can feel in Hannibal a certain amount of sorrow for just how deep some of the cracks in Will go, and how many of them were created by his hand. All Hannibal says, though, is “We’ll take a minute, then. Breathe. Don’t look around. Look at me, or close your eyes, but nowhere else.” He moves a bit, positioning himself to block the flow of sidewalk traffic from Will’s view.

Will lowers his eyes to Hannibal’s shoulder and keeps them there, mindlessly running eyes over the stitching in the fabric, counting breaths, trying to keep it together. He hates doing this in public, doing it anywhere, feels like a spectacle whenever it happens. It helps to have Hannibal shielding him from view. Talking him back from the place his brain is trying to take him to. Not that he hears the words, not really, but the voice is a thread to hang on to and he lets it reel him back in, slow and steady, lets the sound of the river in his mind play in the background and blot out everything else, until he’s back on dry land.

Eventually he swallows hard, lets the river fade from his awareness, and finds himself leaning back against a wall for support, heart still racing, but otherwise more or less okay, other than feeling like an idiot. Which is pretty much what he says: “I feel like an idiot. I’m okay now. Can we just get going and forget that happened?”

Hannibal studies him for a moment, probably running through a diagnostic inventory, in psychiatric professional mode. He seems to decide Will’s as stable as Will gets and nods. “For now. We may need to discuss it again. Would it help if I found us a taxi? Fewer people, less noise?”

“Yes, please.”

Will’s grateful for the minutes it takes Hannibal to flag down a cab for them; grateful for the extra time to collect himself, to ground himself in the rough feel of brick under his fingertips, sounds of birdsong, feeling of fabric against his skin. Using his senses to root himself firmly in the present; it’s really just another version of Hannibal’s old clock game. _My name is Will Graham, I have a fairly wicked case of PTSD which is probably not surprising given the look of horror any psychiatrist gets when I tell them my story and that’s without all the things I can’t tell anyone, but right here and right now I am in Boston and I am fine. I can hear birds and I can feel the sun on my face and in this exact moment nothing is going to hurt me. So shut up, brain._ The “shut up, brain” part isn’t exactly what therapists typically recommend in this exercise, but he finds it helps.

By the time a cab is ready for them he’s more or less himself again, but still glad for the quiet, glad to let Hannibal give the directions and close the door, glad to sink into the cool still darkness of the back seat.

He leans his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, continuing his litany of the sensations that remind him of who and where he is. _Faint smell of smoke; you’re not supposed to smoke in taxis, but someone’s been breaking the rules in here. Maybe the driver. Traffic sounds, but muffled, far away through glass. Slight whine coming from the taxi itself; needs a new fan belt, maybe. There’s a fare notice posted on the window that’s peeling off slowly. A rough spot in the cushion under him, someone’s torn up the seat._

_Cool fingers encircling his wrist and tugging it away from his own lap to rest on Hannibal’s thigh, palm up. The movement is gentle but insisting, not asking._

Oh.

Will tenses for a moment and then relaxes again, letting Hannibal go ahead and monitor his pulse as it finishes coming back down from fight-or-flight mode. He thinks his heart rate might be going up a little bit at the touch itself, and wonders if that’s something Hannibal can tell. 

The taxi wends its way toward the museum and they don’t speak or move, other than the single point of connection where Hannibal’s fingers circle his wrist. They alternate, pressing into his skin to take the pulse, and then idly stroking circles in the same area, a small calming motion. Will drops the rest of his litany; he doesn’t need anything else but this to remind him of where he is and who he’s with. 

Hannibal watches Will's wrist, the traceries of blue veins, the lines where the wrist bends, the subtle working of muscles when Will flexes his fingers. Will watches Hannibal, his eyes obscured by the fall of his hair as he bends over Will's hand, the curve and stretch of his neck, his lips slightly parted in concentration, moving unconsciously to count off the beats of Will's unsteady heart.

They're both in a reverie when the taxi comes to a halt, and it's perhaps the surprise of it, or the content state that Will's been lulled into, that leads him to gently squeeze Hannibal's hand before he withdraws his. A little wordless thank you for grounding him.

They spend several hours in the museum and things are easier there. Quieter. More bound by predictable social rules than a busy city street. No one expects social engagement, everyone's there to look at the art unbothered by others. No one's looking at them. Will starts to unwind and actually pay attention to the running commentary Hannibal's been offering on some of his favorite and least favorite pieces. 

He spends most of the time watching Hannibal watching the paintings and sculptures. It's enjoyable and interesting for the first couple of hours. He likes watching Hannibal get lost in a particular shade of burgundy, the arrested motion of an ocean wave, the way light falls in a forest or the curve some long-ago artist coaxed from a block of marble. He likes hearing Hannibal's stories about the intrigues of the artists and their patrons even though he's not listening closely enough to tell all of the Italians apart. 

Eventually he starts to get impatient, though. At first he thinks he's just run out of patience for art for the day. Or that he's pushing his mostly-but-not-entirely-healed self too far with all the walking, and needs to sit down for a little while. But when they stop at one of the museum's restaurants for lunch and to give Will's leg a rest, and Hannibal turns the full force of his attention back on Will, he figures out what's going on.

What's going on is that Will is jealous of dead European painters. 

He's feeling something like the earth might feel if the sun suddenly turned its heat away and out into the solar system. Suddenly chilled, suddenly bereft of the regard of the center of its orbit. Jealous of the rest of the galaxy for existing and for being, even for a moment, important enough to pull the sun's attention away.

It's a ludicrous thing to be feeling, jealous of Hannibal's attention. He's pretty sure no one in the history of the world has ever sustained so much of Hannibal's attention, or wished so ardently to be rid of it. And now he's jealous of an art museum for momentarily stealing a fraction of it away for a single afternoon.

This is not sustainable. Two people can’t feel this way about each other all the time or when would they find time to eat, sleep, breathe, have anything resembling lives? And that’s just thinking about two normal people, with normal concerns. Jobs, families, home repairs, book clubs. Not people on the run, people with aliases, people who may occasionally get into fights about whether they’re going to undertake a spot of murder over the weekend.

Maybe it would fade, after the first rush of it. Not altogether, but enough to function in the world. Surely it would have to.

He's jarred from the train of thought by their lunch arriving, and finds Hannibal watching him with grave interest. He doesn't particularly feel like explaining where his mind was so he does his best to be distracting, charming, directing the conversation back to art history, observations of the people around them, Hannibal's rather lukewarm appraisal of the lunch. 

They plunge back into the galleries after eating and Will finds himself trailing Hannibal more closely, manufacturing reasons to brush up against him in the crowd a few times, taking pleasure in how easily it distracts Hannibal when he does. After another hour or so he pleads overload from the number of people in close proximity, and draws Hannibal out of the museum.

They take another taxi back to the neighborhood of their hotel and stop off at a market nearby. It's less overwhelming now that they've been out in the world together for a few hours and no SWAT teams have descended. Will keeps it together and carries the basket for Hannibal to drop ingredients in, reminding his companion periodically that he's going to be cooking in a hotel kitchenette equipped with two pans and one semi-decent knife, and so perhaps this dinner should not exist on an operatic scale. He's skeptical that any of his warnings got through as the basket starts to fill up, he rolls his eyes at Hannibal picking out good olive oil that will only be used for a few days and then abandoned at the hotel once they leave, but it's nice to see Hannibal in his element again.

The only adjustment he makes to their purchases is to grab a second bottle of the wine Hannibal’s chosen. He gets A Look for that but blithely ignores it. 

They carry their armloads of shopping bags back to the hotel, enough to feed a small battalion. Last night’s bartender is leaning on the front desk chatting with the check-in clerk, and she flashes a grin at them and a lift of one eyebrow at Will. He can’t quite help his answering grin in response, and he catches Hannibal scowling out of the corner of his eye as they head toward the elevator.

So he’s not the only one capable of random fits of irrational jealousy, still, after all they’ve been through. It’s oddly good to know and he’s tempted to have fun with it, but he suspects this is a subject where teasing could get her killed and turned into the centerpiece of their dinner tonight. So once the door on the elevator closes on them, he notes: “Don’t even think about it. She thinks you’re my boyfriend and she basically told me to fuck your brains out, and also I’m about 95% sure she’s gay. Leave the girl alone. I like this hotel, I don’t want to get kicked out because you ate the staff.”

Will’s pretty sure Hannibal missed the latter part of that completely, that his brain short-circuited around the words “fuck your brains out,” which was most of the reason Will said it, but he thinks the key point got across.

The elevator doors slide open with a little ping and he steps out, sticks a foot in the way of the door sensors to hold them open for Hannibal, and jerks his head toward their suite. “Don’t stare at me like that, I know perfectly well when you’re thinking about--” _killing and eating anyone who’s ever touched me_ “--what you were thinking about. Come on. We’re home.”

Hannibal follows him down the hall and for once seems to have absolutely nothing to say in response.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You and your transformations. Everything’s a metaphor with you.” Will’s not complaining, he lets a fondness shine through his tone. He drains his glass, pours another._
> 
> _“Most things. Metaphors provide useful ways of looking at the world. Every once in a while a cigar really is a cigar, but usually if you change your perspective it’s something else.”_

They spend some time in the afternoon in separate pursuits, Hannibal reading a book, Will calling to check in with the dog sitter and then committing fully to the “mindless distraction” portion of the day’s proceedings by flipping through channels until he finds a Hitchcock movie. He’s always liked Hitchcock, appreciates the man’s understanding that most of the horror of a situation is what’s happening behind people’s eyes rather than in their actions. 

He settles in to watch the movie and after a while, he hears Hannibal close his book. Will pulls up his feet so there’s room on the sofa and Hannibal joins him, noting, “I always liked this one.”

“You would.” Will allows himself a small smirk. “I'll bet a million dollars you spend the whole movie thinking about how you'd have done it better.”

“Obviously. You've been to my dinner parties. I'd have put him in the canapés, not the trunk."

Will rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the screen, but he stretches his legs back out again once Hannibal is settled and lets his toes rest against Hannibal's thigh. Eventually, almost absentmindedly, Hannibal settles a hand on Will's lower leg, a thumb stroking lightly against his ankle under the hem of his jeans. They watch the movie and don't talk.

Once the credits roll, Hannibal takes his hand away and stretches, lazy as a cat, before checking the time. "I should start on dinner. Will you be my sous chef or are you determined to rot your brain with a full evening of television?"

Will snaps the TV off and gets up. "I'm not sure there's enough room or equipment for two people in there but I'm at your service if I can help. I'll wash up." He washes his hands and when he returns Hannibal's set up a scarred cutting board, a none-too-sharp knife, and some garlic for him.

"We'll need that minced. Four or five cloves."

"Manners?" Will can't quite resist.

"Please."

Will sets to work peeling and mincing garlic, paying more attention to getting the bits evenly sized than he would cooking just for himself. When his chopping passes muster he's set to tearing up greens, fetching things from the fridge, and generally making himself useful.

In between times he leans against the counter staying out of the way and just watching Hannibal cook. He's seen Hannibal cook before, for other people and even for Will, and it's all showing off. Flourishes a little bigger than they have to be, leaping flames, running commentary on the history of ingredients and dishes, smoke and mirrors, dazzle and distraction. Equal parts showmanship, seduction, and misdirection. _Look at how lovely my dishes are and don't question why you've never tasted beef quite like this before._

This is subtly different. Some of it's just the limited materials and equipment Hannibal has to work with, but he also just seems changed. Efficient, focused, relaxed, moving smoothly from counter to stove to counter again. No dazzle except that of skill exercised confidently. Will thinks he's seeing what Hannibal cooking for himself looks like, when he's not putting on a show. When he's just being who he is behind the masks. Will suspects it's something not many people get to see. 

He could watch this all evening. When he's between assigned tasks, he digs around in the kitchenette for a battered corkscrew and opens the first bottle of Pinot Noir. He hands over a glass and offers the only toast he can think of: "To no one getting shot this time."

"Let us hope." Hannibal takes a sip of the wine, seems to approve, and goes back to cooking. Will steps back and drinks his wine slowly and steadily as the last of the dinner comes together.

It's not Hannibal's best work but it's better than anything Will would have thought you could make in a hotel kitchen, duck in raspberry sauce, wilted greens in vinaigrette, small potatoes roasted crispy and perfect.

“Mm. So, this is amazing.”

Hannibal shrugs but looks pleased. “There’s only so much to be done in these surroundings, but it’s just transformation. Salt and fire, acidity and sweetness - it’s not magic, it just seems like it when done properly.”

“You and your transformations. Everything’s a metaphor with you.” Will’s not complaining, he lets a fondness shine through his tone. He drains his glass, pours another.

“Most things. Metaphors provide useful ways of looking at the world. Every once in a while a cigar really is a cigar, but usually if you change your perspective it’s something else.”

“Hmm.” Will’s noncommittal on that front, and they finish up dinner companionably with some idle chit-chat. There’s not too much washing-up to do; part of Hannibal’s efficiency is cleaning up as he goes along while he cooks, so it’s really just the actual plates they ate from. Will rinses them and pops them into the dishwasher while Hannibal takes his book back over to the sofa and returns to reading.

He notices that Hannibal’s taken his seat at the far end of the sofa, leaving room next to him again if Will wants to come back. He considers for a moment, twisting the dishcloth idly between his fingers, watching the fall of lamplight on Hannibal’s hair in the darkening room. He thinks about transformations, and metaphors, and staying another day. He thinks about the life he’s left behind in Maine, falling farther into the rearview mirror by the moment.

Eventually he comes to a decision, at least a partial one, and sets aside the dishcloth in favor of pouring himself the last of the bottle of wine. He eyes the second bottle, the one he thought he might need, and realizes he doesn’t. He’s feeling brave enough without it. He finishes the glass, sets it down with a faint clink, and moves before he can second-guess himself. 

He plucks the book from Hannibal’s hand, apologizing before he can be scolded: “I know. Rude. Sorry. I assume I shouldn’t turn down the page for you? This is a priceless antique or something?”

“It was twelve dollars at a used bookstore. Rip out the pages if it pleases you to do so.” Hannibal’s intrigued, his eyes locking onto Will’s face instead of the book. Will dog-ears the page and sets it aside.

He sits down on the coffee table facing Hannibal, a position that places him close and slightly below Hannibal’s eye level. Probably also rude. He doesn’t particularly care. He’s feeling a little bossy, a little warm from the dinner and the wine, a little startled at how easy the day was after the initial rush of panic. A little interested in where he can direct the rest of the evening.

“Close your eyes. I want to ask you some questions.”

There’s a moment’s pause and then Hannibal closes his eyes, easy and trusting, but he does ask, “And you?”

“Not yet. I’m going to stay right here. You’re going to tell me things.”

“What is it you wish to know?” Hannibal keeps his eyes closed but slides down a little, getting comfortable, head tipped back against the cushion, propping an arm along the back of the sofa. He looks for all the world like he’s settling in for a nap.

“Tell me what it would be like. If I came with you. What exactly are you picturing for us?”

Hannibal considers that for a moment, rolls his answer around in his mind like he might savor a sip of wine. Will can almost feel the gears turning in his head before he answers. 

“I’d like you to come with me to Argentina at first. I think you would like the place I’m renting now. It’s set back from the road for privacy, and I’ve left room in the garage for whatever workspace you want. We could start there and then discuss where to go next. I would prefer to stay out of the United States, and it would probably be best to avoid Italy for a while longer, but it’s a big world. There are many places I would like to show you.”

It’s a pretty picture. Will lets himself enjoy it for a minute before he presses the point. “And do we kill people, in this picture of yours?”

He watches Hannibal struggle not to open his eyes, to do as asked. His body doesn’t betray tension but his fingers on the sofa back do. “In my perfect world? Yes. I would very much like to see you again as you were the night we killed Francis Dolarhyde. You were perfect.”

Will swallows, hard, and doesn’t move or speak. He asked the question, and he has to listen to the answer. But he’s disturbed by how suddenly the desire sweeps in to be in that moment again. Mostly he’s disturbed because the desire isn’t so much about the killing (though yes, that’s there, that thing asleep beneath his skin but only barely, turning restlessly in a dream of fire). The disturbing part is that he’s thinking about Hannibal saying _perfect_ and about how he would like to be _perfect_ for Hannibal again. Whatever that might require.

There is still so much farther left to fall.

He waits. Hannibal listens for his response and goes on when he doesn’t hear it.

“I recognize that my dream is not necessarily a likely reality. I would have you with me in whatever form you wish to be. If you want me to go on denying that urge then I will do so, for however long I can. If I must indulge it eventually, I’ll tell you, and I’ll go far away from you so I won’t endanger you. I’ll let you pick the target, if that’s what you want. And then I’ll come back to you if you’ll have me. Will.”

He keeps his eyes closed but he reaches out a hand, just a small movement, Will’s not entirely sure if it’s even a conscious one. But he can’t leave it unanswered, not when he understands so completely the vulnerability behind it. 

After all these months of them talking, Will suddenly doesn’t have words. But he has hands. He leans forward and entwines the fingers of his left hand with Hannibal’s right one, the one that’s reaching out for him.

The other hand is reaching toward Hannibal’s face, perhaps to curl in his hair, and the momentum is tipping him forward, so close he’s almost in Hannibal’s lap, yet another way to fall. He’s not unwilling but he needs a net. He needs to know this particular fall only goes so far. He needs to find some words.

“I’m going to kiss you in a minute.”

That does get a reaction, but it’s an odd one - Will would swear not a muscle of Hannibal has moved but he _feels_ a sudden crackling tension. Whatever Will’s reading off Hannibal it’s nothing he’s doing physically. Hannibal doesn’t say a word; he’s waiting. He’s been waiting for years.

“I don’t want to mislead you here, so I want to be very clear. I’m going to kiss you and that’s as far as this goes tonight.” Will’s so tuned in to Hannibal he’s barely paying attention to himself but he suddenly realizes his heart is galloping wildly. It’s himself he’s setting rules for, as much as Hannibal. Maybe he’s the one who’s not to be trusted. “But I want you to kiss me like I’m leaving in the morning and I’m not coming back. Kiss me like this is the only chance you get.”

“Is it?” The _strain_ in Hannibal’s voice, Will’s never heard anything quite like it. He wants to kiss it away. He wants a variety of things, some of them contradictory, some of them impossible, but causing Hannibal pain is not one of them. Not anymore.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can be what you want me to be. I know I can be this, tonight. Okay?”

That gets him a nod, a tightening of the fingers interlaced with his. It’s going to have to be good enough. He lets the momentum pull him forward, lets his other hand reach out and settle at the base of Hannibal’s neck, lets himself fall enough for their lips to touch, lets Hannibal’s free hand come up and settle around his waist and pull him onto the sofa, lets inevitability take over.

He’s thought about this, some of those lonely nights in Maine. And to be perfectly honest, on a few lonely nights long before that. All the way back to Wolf Trap, he’s lain in a succession of beds, alone and accompanied, and thought about Hannibal Lecter. But lifetimes seem to separate those nights and this one and whatever he expected, it’s not what he gets.

What he gets is _home_. What he gets is a promising combination of gentle, exploratory, welcome-home kisses with a strong arm holding him in place and the feeling of a firm, warm body pressed against him. What he gets is _I have been waiting for this my entire life; how did I not know that?_

It feels like they kiss for a long time there on the sofa, the initial gentleness giving way to something a bit more fierce as they learn the way their bodies fit together, the tastes of each other’s tongues. But when Will pauses for breath, and finds both his hands in Hannibal’s hair, pulling his head back, he also finds that Hannibal’s eyes are _still_ closed. He’s trying so hard to be what Will asks him to be. It must be killing him not to be seeing this, although to be fair, he’s doing a damn good job of putting his hands everywhere at once and he could probably do a pretty accurate sculpture of the two of them at this point even without seeing a thing.

Will grins a little wildly and realizes that in addition to being hot, and a little scary, this is _fun_. His expectations hadn’t really included fun either. 

He unfolds himself from Hannibal with reluctance and gets up, pulling the older man to his feet as well. “Keep them closed just a little longer, okay?”

Hannibal’s flushed now, lips parted and breath fast, but he’s following the rules. He lets himself be led by the hand, around the coffee table, around the chair and the dining room table, toward the bedroom. He lets himself be pushed down onto the bed, pliant, intent on proving over and over again his willingness to have Will any way he’s allowed.

Will takes a moment to consider breaking his rules. It’s very tempting. Which is exactly why he shouldn’t do it. “ _Fuck_.” He climbs onto the bed after Hannibal, presses the length of their bodies together, and finally relents. “Okay. You can open your eyes.”

He doesn’t actually meet Hannibal’s eyes when they open. He doesn’t think he can stand everything that’s in them; he might melt, he might die, he might decide then and there to run away to Argentina, he might do any of a number of extremely ill-advised things. He focuses on Hannibal’s lips instead, touches them with a forefinger, watching them release a long, shaky breath. He can imagine what Hannibal is seeing; how disheveled he must be, how filled with yearnings he doesn’t know how to express or ask for, how entirely in the moment he is, nothing else in his mind but the two of them in this room.

Will lowers his gaze to Hannibal’s shirt, unbuttons a button or two and watches the working of Hannibal’s throat underneath his fingers as his breath comes short. He feels Hannibal’s fingers tighten on his hips, squaring their bodies against each other, making it very clear how much they’re both enjoying this.

He presses his lips carefully to the underside of Hannibal’s jaw, rasps his tongue over the hint of stubble there, tastes salt. He thinks of what Hannibal said earlier: _salt and fire, acidity and sweetness. Transformation, when done properly_. He undoes another button, fingers tripping over each other to move faster.

“ _Will_.” It’s a harsh sound, almost a plea, and Will does look up now, meets all sorts of things in Hannibal’s eyes. Stars. Monsters. Danger. Home. A bevy of metaphors, and lust and love besides. His breath catches. “I thought we were just kissing tonight?” He can tell Hannibal hates to ask, is hoping maybe Will has changed his mind. 

“We are. I didn’t say where, and I didn’t say for how long.” He really does love teasing Hannibal. Apparently that extends to the bedroom as well, which doesn’t particularly surprise him to learn. “I’ll tell you when to stop. Kiss me again. Make me forget about leaving in the morning.”

He’s already pretty sure he’s not leaving in the morning, but Hannibal doesn’t need to know that yet. He grins again and lets Hannibal roll him over onto his back and start working Will’s own shirt up and over his head. He arches up to help with that and to drag Hannibal’s lips down to his again.

They get very little sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have to leave you hanging for a few days before I can update again, darlings, so I thought I'd leave you with something nice in the meanwhile. Have fun waiting for the next bit...


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Equilibrium has been upset. Lines crossed. He knows things now that he didn’t know yesterday, that would make it even harder to walk away from whatever this is. No decisions have been made but all the decisions feel like they’ve been made._
> 
> _It’s hard to be sorry in this particular moment._

It might be a stretch to say that Will “wakes up”, because that would imply some period of actual sleep. Instead the night, and much of the morning, have been spent in a sort of limbo, dozing and waking to kiss and touch, dozing again, waking again, until reality and dreams and fantasies spin and blur. 

Somewhere in there someone said “love.” Someone said “stay.” Someone may have broken one or two of the ground rules. Will doesn’t remember which of these someones were him. He doesn’t really care. 

He’s so tired. But he’s gotten in a solid twenty-minute catnap, and Hannibal is right there, asleep next to him, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions, legs tangled with Will’s. Whatever he’s dreaming about doesn’t show on his face. He looks peaceful. He looks like he needs the sleep. Will could let him sleep, get a little more rest himself.

It’s not even a contest.

He shifts the small amount needed and kisses Hannibal gently, so gently, barely enough pressure to register. He licks his way inside Hannibal’s mouth, ratcheting up the pressure of his lips so slowly, letting his hand drift to the back of Hannibal’s neck, until he feels Hannibal wake and stir and come alive under his attentions. There’s a muffled noise that might be laughter or a very unconvincing protest. There are hands. 

Eventually they break apart enough for Will to mumble, “Good morning. Again.” It’s the third or fourth time they’ve had this conversation since the sun came up.

“Good morning.” Hannibal’s voice is serious but his eyes are alight. “It seems to me that it might be a wise decision for one of us to hang the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign. Since you’re so determined to protect the hotel staff from me.”

He’s not wrong. Will rolls over onto his back and yawns theatrically, making a vague motion as if to sit up. “Probably a good idea. But do you _really_ want to let me out of this bed?”

Hannibal’s out of bed in about two seconds flat. “No. I intend to keep you here until at least noon to forestall this “leaving in the morning” nonsense. I’ll go.”

Will watches Hannibal leave the room, pants slung low on his hips after an evening of activity during which they did not technically come off but were certainly threatening to at some points. It’s a nice view. He calls after him, “Hey, bring me some coffee, too.”

He’s pushing it and he knows he’s pushing it, but he also knows he can get away with it. He gets out of bed long enough to brush his teeth and splash some cold water on his face, and is back in the warm nest of blankets by the time Hannibal returns with the requested coffee.

The coffee turns out to be damn near drinkable, for hotel room coffee. Will squints at it suspiciously. “Did you do something to this? Were you slow-roasting your own beans while I slept or something?”

“Allow me a few secrets, please.”

Will rolls his eyes. He’s pretty sure this is actually just the kind of hotel that has a decent coffeemaker in-suite, but he’ll let it go. He gulps down most of the mug and leans back against the headboard to wait for it to hit his bloodstream. “Thank you. I appear to be tired this morning. Can’t imagine why.”

Hannibal looks entirely too smug as he slides back under the blankets with his own mug and responds, “Anything that kept you awake was entirely your own idea and I have no sympathy for you. If anything, you might consider that _I_ am the one whose plans for the evening were completely disrupted, and have a little sympathy for _me_.” 

Will knows a cue when he hears one. He sets the coffee aside and shuts Hannibal up enthusiastically until they’re both exhausted and doze off again. Eventually, when he wakes again in another tangle of limbs and sheets and late-morning sun, he’s feeling better rested but the coffee has long since gone cold.

He lies still for a few minutes, warm and held and comfortable, and allows himself a tiny bit of belated _holy shit what have I done?_ panic. 

Equilibrium has been upset. Lines crossed. He knows things now that he didn’t know yesterday, that would make it even harder to walk away from whatever this is. No decisions have been made but all the decisions _feel_ like they’ve been made. 

It’s hard to be sorry in this particular moment.

Will makes a decision not to be sorry. He’s sorry for things that happened before yesterday and he’ll almost certainly be sorry for things to come, but he’s not sorry for these hours. Not today. Probably not ever. 

He disentangles himself as slowly as he can, disturbing Hannibal’s sleep but not fully waking him. A little frown chases across Hannibal’s face and fades back to stillness. Will thinks _sleep, love_ but doesn’t say it out loud, not even when there’s no one awake to hear but him. If he only thinks it, it doesn’t have to have weight or meaning yet.

He showers and changes and frowns at the blotch on his throat, high up where his shirt collar won't cover it. There's not another mark on his torso, for all it was very thoroughly kissed and nipped and scratched. This one, clearly, was deliberate. _So fucking territorial, Hannibal_. He's too old to be skulking around in turtlenecks hiding hickeys like a teenager but that's exactly what he's going to have to do when he gets back to Maine. Where he really does have to return soon, one way or another.

But not today.

He scrounges up some hotel stationery and scribbles a note: _I'm making dinner tonight. Went out to pick up some supplies. Back soon._

He slips out the door as quietly as he can and back out into the world. It's easier today, now that he's done it a few times, and he feels less conspicuous without Hannibal by his side. He's still not loving this “other people exist in the world” thing but it's manageable. 

He does his shopping quickly, just a few ingredients for a simple meal. He's not going to try to outdo Hannibal at his own game. He picks up a six pack of Chimay. He hesitates but ends up picking up a small bouquet as well in the shop's floral section. It's not really his thing but he doesn't need it turn on the empathy to know it's Hannibal's. They're probably not the right kind or color or whatever but the gesture will, hopefully, be appreciated anyway.

He walks a roundabout way home to the hotel, adding a few extra blocks, to get a little fresh air. A little space to think that's not consumed by the way Hannibal looks at him. He finds a bench to sit on for a few minutes and tries to have a serious talk with himself about choices and consequences. He can't seem to do it; he keeps finding himself staring off into space and grinning like an idiot instead. Like a damn teenager, he thinks again, and again can’t bring himself to be sorry.

Maybe it’s not such a terrible idea to take a little break from being sorry. About who he is, about things he’s done, about things he’s failed to do. Will Graham spends a lot of time being sorry. Maybe one of the things Will can be, if he decides to be not-Will-Graham, is someone who spends less time on that particular emotion. (It’s probably not as easy as that. He’s not really under the illusion that he can leave _all_ of himself behind. But it’s nice to let himself imagine.)

After a few minutes he shakes himself from the reverie and heads back to the hotel. 

He lets himself in quietly in case Hannibal’s still asleep, but he’s apparently not. He’s on Will almost before the door can shut behind him, pressing him back against it with a kiss that takes Will’s breath away and almost makes him drop the groceries. It’s a long kiss, deep and searching and you’d think they’d been separated for months, not an hour or two. It spins Will’s head and threatens to turn his knees to jelly.

Somehow by the time Hannibal lets up, he’s managed to extract the groceries deftly from Will’s hands into his own and is heading to the counter to deposit them.

Will blinks after him in a mild but not unpleasant state of surprise and offers, “...hello?”

“I wasn’t sure what rules were in effect this afternoon,” Hannibal responds cheerfully as he starts to put away the groceries. “I thought I’d better get that in before you tell me I’m not allowed, or I’m only allowed during odd-numbered hours, or on days that end in ‘y.’”

“You do know all the days end in ‘y’, right? They taught that in medical school?”

“That’s why I think that’s a particularly good rule. If rules we _must_ have.” He sounds far too pleased with himself. it occurs to Will that of all the perfectly good reasons there were for him not to have kissed Hannibal, one that he had failed to consider is that Hannibal is now going to be completely and utterly insufferable, pretty much forever.

“You’re impossible.” Will lets Hannibal finish putting the last couple of items in the refrigerator, until he’s holding only the flowers, and then leans up against him, pressing his face into the soft shirt Hannibal is wearing. “Absolutely impossible in every sense. _We’re_ impossible. You know that, right?”

“I don’t recognize impossibility. Improbable, perhaps.” Hannibal gestures slightly with the flowers. “For me?”

Will shrugs, a little uncomfortable. “I thought I’d make a gesture. I’m not very good at gestures, though. Are they all wrong? Do they mean something terrible in some antiquated fucking flower language?”

Hannibal’s smile, Will is pretty sure, is the warmest expression he’s ever seen on the man’s face. He wasn’t wrong - this was absolutely Hannibal’s thing, the right gesture even if done awkwardly. “They mean anything you want them to mean, and they’re lovely. Thank you, Will.”

Will hangs back and watches Hannibal trim the flower stems and arrange them in a bowl, since the hotel doesn’t seem to keep vases in their suites. He fusses with the arrangement for a while, making minute changes that make no visible difference to Will, snipping a little off a stem here and there until he’s finally satisfied. When he steps back, there’s one bloom left on the countertop. Will points it out: “Did you forget that one? Is something wrong with it?”

“I’m saving this one.” Hannibal takes it over to the table where his book is still resting from last night and places the flower gently between the pages. Will watches as Hannibal takes the book over to the suite’s desk, goes searching through its drawers for a phone book, and places the phone book on top of the original book to weigh it down. “It’s going to ruin those pages as it dries, but I don’t have the right materials for this, and it should still preserve nicely. And to be perfectly honest, the book’s resale value was already beyond repair. Someone with terrible manners turned a page down.”

Ruining Hannibal’s book is just one on the rapidly lengthening list of things that Will refuses to be sorry for. He lets it go and leans back against the kitchen counter. “So, is it okay if I make dinner? It’s not going to be up to your standards but I actually am a decent cook, and I’d rather not just be taken care of all the time. I’d like to earn my keep.”

“If you’re making dinner, you’re staying the night again, yes?”

Will’s pretty sure he’s not blushing. It would be ridiculous if he were blushing. Surely grown men don’t blush. “Yes.”

“Then you may make dinner. You may make dinner tomorrow night. You may make dinner all week.” How on earth is Hannibal managing to make a dinner schedule sound sexy? That should not be possible. Somehow it is. _Oh, I am in so much trouble here_ , Will thinks.

“I can’t stay all week, Hannibal. I have to go back. The dogs. The house. There are things I have to do.”

“Then stay five days.”

“I really, really need to leave tomorrow. This isn’t a negotiation."

“Everything’s a negotiation.” Oh, he’s so damn sure of himself. But he’s not wrong. The urge to relent is so strong, and Hannibal’s giving him that look again, and crossing the distance between them, and his hands are in Will’s hair and suddenly Will can’t think. “Give me tonight to convince you.”

Will’s breath is stuck somewhere in his throat, he’s not sure if it’s a laugh or a moan or a sigh that he’s making. “We can’t do this every night. You can’t keep earning one more day indefinitely. We have to leave this hotel at some point.” He feels like he’s losing his grip on this situation, fast, and the only way he can think of to get it back is to be the first one to make a move. So he leans in and kisses Hannibal, hard, tongue and teeth and grasping hands and not even a little bit sorry for any of it, until he’s out of air and has to pull back. When he does, he manages a breathless laugh. “But you would, wouldn’t you? You’d earn me every day if I’d let you. Every day forever.”

It’s not a question and it doesn’t need an answer. They both know Hannibal would spend the rest of his life earning Will over and over again if he had to. The knowledge feels too big for Will to contain, it’s too much power to have over another person. He’d have used this power to crush Hannibal once if he’d realized just how easy it would have been to do it, and now he doesn’t want to use it at all.

He shakes his head, it’s too full of too many conflicting things. “Two days. I’ll stay tonight and tomorrow night and then I have to go. If I stay any longer Molly or Jack are going to come looking and that’s no good for either of us. We’ll make a plan before I go for whatever comes next. Okay?”

Hannibal doesn’t answer, he just goes back to kissing Will senseless, and Will doesn’t remember or care that he forgot to establish any rules this time.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He makes it sound so simple. Will wants to believe it can be that simple. “‘Change your name and flee the country whenever life gets too difficult’ doesn’t seem like a great long-term strategy. We’ll run out of countries eventually, if nothing else.”_
> 
> _Hannibal holds out a hand and Will had every intention of staying over on his end of the sofa, far away from distracting hands or lips, but he goes to Hannibal like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. Which maybe he has._

_“E però, quando s'ode cosa o vede_  
_che tegna forte a sé l'anima volta_  
_vassene 'l tempo e l'uom non se n'avvede.”_

Will doesn’t look up from the salmon he’s searing; the timing’s tricky, and he is not letting Hannibal distract him again. Dinner’s already much later than he’d intended, and he’s a man on a mission. He keeps his eyes firmly on the stovetop, looking away only long enough to reach for his open beer and take another swig before responding. “I’m going to assume that means ‘I’m very impressed by your culinary skills and sorry I’ve never asked you to cook for me before, and I am in no way being a backseat driver in the kitchen, Will.’ And I’m going to assume it’s Italian because you have some kind of daily Dante quota you need to reach.”

“It was wishful thinking, really. _Time moves and yet we do not notice it_. I was feeling time move. But I _am_ sorry you’ve never offered to cook for me before.”

Will’s feeling time move as well; something about setting an end date on this little idyll has set a timer counting down in his brain. But he’s not giving into that or letting Hannibal give into it; they’ve got this evening, and a whole other day after, and the next morning, and there’s no point in getting overly dramatic about it. _Although, really, try ever telling Hannibal Lecter not to get overly dramatic about anything and see where that gets you._ He hides the smile, face turned squarely away from Hannibal and toward his dinner preparations. “Wait until you taste the results before you decide if you’re sorry. But you should be. My repertoire is limited but good.”

“Your _repertoire_ can be expanded.” It’s practically a purr and Will avoids eye contact even harder, watching the fish in the pan sizzle. Hannibal isn’t exactly being subtle. It has occurred to Will more than once, looking back, that the man basically hangs his double entendres around his neck with a blinking neon sign pointing to them, and should have gotten caught years sooner based on that alone.

He settles for, “That is _not_ what I meant, Hannibal. We’re talking about food right now.”

“If you say so. I believe you’re drawing an arbitrary division between one sensory experience and another.”

There’s absolutely nothing Will can say in answer to that that’s not going to end up with his dinner burning on the stove while Hannibal, who is showing distinct signs of being a sex maniac despite the fact that they haven’t actually had sex, ravishes him six ways from Sunday. But Will’s going to get this dinner served if it’s the last thing he does, which it might in fact be at the rate this is going.

Instead he changes the subject and waves a hand at the cupboard. “Would you grab me a couple of plates?” Hannibal lets himself be distracted and Will manages to get dinner plated and served successfully. He even manages to keep the dinner table discussion to a fairly low level of innuendo and punning, but it’s a struggle. Hannibal’s in high spirits. 

Will’s unleashed something he’s not entirely in control of, and if he doesn’t get back in control of it and fast, he’s going to spend the next day and a half drowning in Hannibal’s bed. Which is tempting, so tempting he’s hit with an aching wave of want at just the thought, but it isn’t going to solve any of the things that still need solving. 

He puts Hannibal to work washing dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, to buy himself a little time to think. Hannibal goes willingly enough, apparently content to be bossed around, which Will finds both uncharacteristic, charming, and flattering - he’s pretty sure Hannibal wouldn’t take this much ordering around from anyone else. 

He opens another beer and retreats to the sofa, back against one arm, legs stretched out along the length of the cushions. He ponders, and works on the beer, and waits for Hannibal to come to him. Which he does, taking the other end of the sofa and settling in with his own glass of wine. Hannibal studies him for a moment and then sighs. “You’re preoccupied, Will. Not here with me. Where are you?”

“Still trying to think all this through. This isn’t real life. Not what we’re doing here, not what we were doing long distance. I could give up my life and go with you and it could turn out we can’t make it work.” He senses a protest and holds up a hand to cut it off. “Let’s say we work out the big stuff. You’re not going to kill anyone. I’m going to find some way to make a living so I’m not dependent on you. I vanish successfully and no one ever hears from Will Graham again. There’s still everything else. I’m grumpy as hell when I don’t have enough personal space and you’re not good with personal space. You’re probably hell to live with if things are messy and my entire life is messy. We’re both utter disasters as human beings, even if you fake it better than I do. What if I burn my life down and can’t find a place in yours?”

He doesn’t quite understand at first why that little speech pulls a smile from Hannibal, warm and open and affectionate. “That’s what you're worried about?”

“I'm worried about at least twenty things. That’s the one I’m worrying about right now. Why is it funny to you?”

Hannibal is trying to sound sorry about his amusement but he doesn’t actually look it. “You just continue to surprise me. You’ve skipped right over the murder and mayhem and life on the run and you’re worried we’ll fight over chores and schedules?”

“It sounds stupid when you put it that way.”

“Let’s call it endearing. I truly do not think that any of that is going to be a problem. If you don’t fit comfortably in the life I’ve made, we’ll start a new one somewhere else that suits both of us. We’ll be free. We can go anywhere.”

He makes it sound so simple. Will wants to believe it can be that simple. “‘Change your name and flee the country whenever life gets too difficult’ doesn’t seem like a great long-term strategy. We’ll run out of countries eventually, if nothing else.”

Hannibal holds out a hand and Will had every intention of staying over on his end of the sofa, far away from distracting hands or lips, but he goes to Hannibal like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. Which maybe he has. He lets Hannibal pull him in close, lets himself nestle against the other man’s heart, lets the echoes of their last moments on the clifftop reverberate through them both. 

“I think you underestimate us both.” He’s feeling the rumble of Hannibal’s voice in his chest, and a hand lightly stroking his hair, as much as he’s hearing the words, and the cumulative effect is deeply soothing. “We’re both highly adaptable creatures. We survive, despite your best efforts to the contrary. _Come with me_. The rest can be worked out.”

Will lets his eyes drift shut, lets Hannibal’s heartbeat take him where it will, and he must fall asleep right there because when he opens his eyes again it’s late and he’s in bed, still dressed but under the covers, with Hannibal’s arm slung over him, heavy with sleep. He doesn’t remember getting there; either Hannibal carried him or woke him just enough to get him up on his feet.

What grips him, in those first moments of wakefulness before he can impose order on his thoughts, isn’t the other nineteen things still left to worry about. It’s _we only had two evenings left, and I wasted one falling asleep_. It’s a pang of anticipatory loss at the thought of going back to Maine, alone in his car, alone in his home, alone in his bed. It's hunger.

It would be rude to wake Hannibal up in the middle of the night to make up for the lost time. But he doesn’t think, in this particular case, he’d be admonished for the rudeness.

He gives himself ten slow breaths to change his mind, and then does not change his mind. He rolls over against Hannibal and cups a hand around his jaw before kissing him awake, slow and sweet, letting the hand trail down Hannibal’s neck and shoulder and back, around his side, to just barely dip into the waistband of his pajamas before resting there, flat against Hannibal’s stomach where the muscles suddenly clench tight under his fingers as Hannibal comes awake. He whispers, “Wake up, love” against Hannibal’s lips and is answered by a sigh.

“I’m awake, I promise you.” The arm draped over him tightens around him but otherwise neither of them acknowledge the word Will just left hanging in the air between them. 

Will smiles in the dark even though Hannibal can barely see him in the half-light, and lets his hand slip just a little lower beneath that elastic waistband. “I just made a new rule.”

That elicits a groan, half-pleasure at the promise of Will’s hand somewhere new, and half-frustration. “Why do we need a new rule at this ungodly hour?”

“The new rule is there aren’t any rules after one a.m.”

Hannibal cranes to blink at the clock. “Please tell me it’s after one a.m.”

Will shakes his head. It’s actually 12:57. “Patience. I’m afraid this particular trick in my repertoire is rather rusty; it’s been a long time since I practiced it on anyone but myself. It’ll probably take me at least three minutes just to remember how it’s supposed to work.” The clock ticks by another minute and he corrects himself. “Two minutes.”

“ _Will_.”

He’s getting to know that particular intonation of his name, a growl and a plea and a warning all at once, and to become very fond of it. Somewhat to Will’s own surprise, as it really has been a long time since he found himself in bed with another man, of all the things he has doubts about, this is turning out not to be one of them. This particular aspect of Will-and-Hannibal works just fine. He swirls his fingertips lazily over the raised scarring on Hannibal’s stomach, remnants of Francis Dolarhyde.

“One minute.”

He starts to laugh as Hannibal’s hand on his back presses even tighter and slips even lower, but his laugh gets swallowed up in a kiss that lasts so long they both miss the clock marking one a.m. altogether.

Quite a while later, after he’s taken Hannibal apart and put him back together again and turned out not to be so terribly rusty at the mechanics after all, after he's let himself fall apart in Hannibal's arms, after the world stops spinning, Will’s not surprised to hear, “That rule’s not so bad. We can keep that one.”

He kisses Hannibal goodnight again and slips back into sleep, thinking with lazy contentment that they've quite satisfactorily made up for the lost evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And therefore when we see or hear a thing_   
>  _that concentrates the soul,_   
>  _time moves and yet we do not notice it._   
>  _\- Purgatorio_


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He lets a hand drift up to touch Hannibal’s knee, where it’s resting near his head. “A nice quiet life where no one gets stabbed or shot or thrown off cliffs. You don’t think you’ll find it boring?” He’s doing his best to sound lighthearted but it’s a real question, and Hannibal knows it._
> 
> _“I don’t believe I could ever find you boring, Will. And there’s so much world for us to show each other. I imagine we’ll find ways to pass the time that don’t involve near-death experiences.”_

“Just admit it, already.” Abigail’s grinning ear to ear, sitting on the counter of the kitchenette swinging her feet back and forth. 

“Fine.” Will tries to glare but it doesn’t really work out, it turns into a smile in spite of itself. “I _may_ , just _possibly_ , have been nesting a _little_. Did you vanish for three days and come back just to make me admit that?”

“I vanished because you’ve been _busy_ ,” she counters, casting a significant glance toward the open door to the bedroom. “Did you really want me showing up to chat during all of this?”

“Fair point.”

“And I’m guessing he’s not going to be gone all that long, so if you want to talk, better talk fast. Unless you’re prepared to have the ‘by the way, I still talk to Abigail a lot’ conversation today.” It’s lighthearted enough; Abigail’s not particularly bothered that Will hasn’t discussed her with Hannibal. It bothers him, a little - he’d like to know if Hannibal has his own Abigail carried with him. But it’s hard to find the right time to bring it up. 

“Twenty minutes or so, I think. He said something about arrangements to be made. Whatever the hell that means.” Will takes a seat and a deep breath. “I’m in over my head here, Abigail. I wasn’t supposed to have to think about any of this. This was all supposed to be over.”

“You’re not really sorry he didn’t die. You’re not even sorry _you_ didn’t die.”

“Not anymore. I think I was, right when it happened. It was the elegant solution. The right thing to do.”

“You’re not actually required to sacrifice everything you love for the right thing to do, you know. No one else does. Other people let themselves be happy sometimes. You could try it.”

“I am trying it.”

“And?”

He leans against the counter and scowls, unwilling to answer that.

Abigail shrugs and kicks at the air again. “You’re the one who pulls me up for the occasional Socratic dialogue when you need to work through things. I can go back and hang out with the Wendigo if you don’t need me to ask the questions.”

“You’re a pain in the ass and you only ever tell me exactly what I want to hear. Socrates you’re not.”

“But you love me anyway.” She shrugs, nonchalant, beautiful, hurting his heart. He can just about see through her where the sun strikes her, his lovely ghost daughter.

“I do.” He’s not sure what it says about him. She’s as much his id by now as she is the real Abigail who lived and died so briefly in his life, and maybe loving her is just a weird narcissism at this point. But it’s the best version of her he can remember, and he does love her.

“And you love him.”

“I do.” That one comes harder. He’s still testing the word to learn its shape and weight on his tongue when he says it to Hannibal. It means something different than it does when he’s said it to anyone else. It’s a way he didn’t know love worked, exactly. Closer to the bone, sharper-edged, working itself inexorably into his marrow. But he doesn’t know any other word for it.

“So figure out what to do with that. _Pick something_. It doesn’t have to be elegant or right, but you do have to choose.”

Will starts to point out that this is not news to him, but there’s the click of the room key card in the door. He turns his head involuntarily at the sound and when he looks back, Abigail’s gone.

Hannibal shrugs out of his coat and hangs it precisely in the hall closet before coming into the main area of the suite to greet him, a thick envelope in hand that he drops on the counter next to Will. He looks distracted. “Put this somewhere safe with your things.”

Will picks up the envelope, weighing it in his hands. It’s light for the thickness. “Should I open it?”

“Not right now. It can wait until you’re back in Maine if you’re really going to insist on leaving tomorrow. Just take it with you.”

Will doesn’t press the point. At least Hannibal’s actually acknowledging now that Will’s leaving tomorrow, not still trying to bargain for more time that Will knows it’s not safe to give but wants to give anyway. He disappears to the second bedroom, the one they’ve barely touched other than Will’s periodic visits to grab changes of clothes from the closet, and tucks the envelope into his bag. He stares at the bag for a minute, thinking about packing in the morning. Thinking about leaving. Will’s not someone who particularly enjoys hotel life - he likes his own space, his own things, his routines - but he’s never been less interested in going home in his life.

He goes back out to Hannibal and for most of the afternoon they don’t talk about leaving, or choices, or the mystery envelope, or anything of any particular consequence. They seem to have come to a mutual unspoken agreement to just pretend it’s a normal afternoon, the kind of afternoon they might have in a shared life. Hannibal finds a book that’s not currently acting as a flower press and reads. Will stretches out on the sofa next to him and flips through TV stations for a while. Eventually he closes his eyes and drifts between worlds, part of his mind by the river with Abigail, the other part of him lying still but alive to the sensation of Hannibal’s free hand in his hair and stroking the back of his neck, drifting away to turn pages periodically but always coming back to caress him. It’s a fairly pleasant way to pass an afternoon.

Eventually he stretches and sighs and wriggles to a more comfortable position to look up at Hannibal, who’s paused in his reading to glance down at Will’s movement.

Will says, “I’m beginning to understand how hard it was for you to leave.”

Hannibal considers that for a moment. “It was difficult, after what we had shared. But there weren’t many alternatives. You needed care I couldn’t provide in the circumstances. Someone had to call an ambulance. And once they were called I had to leave or be caught.”

“Still. Thank you for saving my life.”

“Thank you for not dying.” It’s the tiniest quirk of the lips, barely a smile, but Will catches it and smiles back.

“I turn out to be terrible at dying. I keep almost doing it and then failing miserably. I think I might give it up for a while.”

Hannibal’s hand in his hair tightens slightly, then relaxes. “I would appreciate that.”

He lets a hand drift up to touch Hannibal’s knee, where it’s resting near his head. “A nice quiet life where no one gets stabbed or shot or thrown off cliffs. You don’t think you’ll find it boring?” He’s doing his best to sound lighthearted but it’s a real question, and Hannibal knows it.

“I don’t believe I could ever find you boring, Will. And there’s so much world for us to show each other. I imagine we’ll find ways to pass the time that don’t involve near-death experiences.”

 _Ways to pass the time_. It’s tempting to take the opportunity being offered, to shift the course of the conversation and to pull Hannibal back into the bedroom, or to have him right there on the sofa, to see for the first time in full daylight what Hannibal looks like when he unravels. That mental image has Will’s mouth suddenly dry, and he can tell by Hannibal’s small satisfied chuckle that his train of thought is apparent on his face.

Will resists the impulse, closing his eyes against it. Not that it helps. The mental image is still there in the redness behind his eyes. “You know,” he mutters semi-seriously, “you make it very difficult for me to make careful and considered life choices when you say things like that, in that particular tone of voice.”

Hannibal’s so thoroughly smug, Will can hear it in his voice and doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know the expression on Hannibal’s face. “First of all, _you_ kissed _me_."

“And you’re never going to let me forget it, are you?”

“Most likely not. Second, I think it is appropriate for you to gather all pertinent information. You should perhaps look upon these days as a fact finding expedition. You’ve had your months of solitude for comparison. Isn’t this better?”

Will doesn’t even have to answer that, he just offers Hannibal his most unguarded smile and meets his eyes. _Yes. This is so much better_.

They sit with that for a few moments, quiet and content, and Will realizes that in this particular moment he no longer feels like he’s falling. He feels effortlessly caught and held, his long fall broken. 

He’d been expecting, or hoping for, some sort of grand revelation. A lightning bolt or a burning bush. Instead there’s just a sensation of the world tilting on its axis ever so slightly, barely perceptible, just a degree or two, just enough for the separate and broken pieces of Will’s heart to slide until they fit together without gaps, so that he knows what to do with them.

There’s an unusual clarity to the sudden sensation of knowing that he is Will Graham, that he’s in Boston and it’s afternoon and he’s in a hotel room with Hannibal Lecter. That he’s going back to Maine tomorrow to take care of Molly and Walter and the dogs and to do what he can to make sure Jack won’t come looking for him. And that after Maine, when Maine is over, he’s going home.

He rests in that clarity for a few breaths, fixing it in his mind, a memory he wants to keep and return to, and then he sits up and plucks Hannibal’s book out of his hands. Hannibal’s protest is mild enough: “Do you have a personal vendetta against me reading?”

“You may have to learn to love the short story.” Will tosses the book carelessly onto the coffee table and settles himself gently over Hannibal, planting a knee on either side of his legs, brushing his lips with a light kiss. 

Hannibal’s breath catches but he smiles and tips his head back to lean into the kiss. “I suppose it’s one of those compromises we’ll have to work out.”

He starts to move as if to get up and lead Will back into the bedroom, but Will shakes his head, leans his arms on the back of the sofa, cages Hannibal between them. “Not in there. Right here.” He grins as Hannibal’s hands come up to grip his hips, and glances speculatively toward the little dining table. “Then maybe over there. We have a lot of hours left and several unexplored surfaces.”

He watches Hannibal’s eyes go dark and hungry, feels the body beneath him tense, and waits through another breath before continuing, drawing this out as long as he can. “I want to make sure you have something to remember while I’m gone. It’s going to take a few weeks before I can come to you.” He lets that linger for a moment, watching the tentative realization arrive in Hannibal’s features like a sunrise. “But I will. I’ll come to you. Okay?”

Not that there’s any question about it being okay, but he still wants to hear Hannibal say it. He doesn’t get that, exactly, but he gets his name on Hannibal’s lips, overwhelmed and reverent, and he gets every bit of breath kissed out of him, and he gets to spend the next several hours exploring the possibilities of a wide variety of the hitherto-unexplored surfaces of their hotel suite. It’s more than enough to build some memories to sustain them both in the coming weeks.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It’s simple enough work and easy to fall into, to enjoy being mindlessly good at something he can do with his hands that doesn’t require a deep dive into any of the darker places in his mind._
> 
> _It’s a fine warm evening and as he works, his mind drifts backward and forward in time. The past few days. Days to look forward to. Despite the tension, despite the prospect of going to bed alone tonight and for many nights to come, Will finds himself humming contentedly._

Morning comes much too soon. 

Will makes some vague efforts at hiding under his pillow but they’re not terribly successful, and eventually he rolls over to press against the warmth of Hannibal, who turns out to be awake. He looks tired still, like maybe he’s never actually fallen asleep.

Will wants to give voice to how much he hates this, but doing so is just going to invite Hannibal to encourage him to stay, and it would take so little encouragement. But he knows that the best chance he has of making a new life work is to say a proper farewell to the old one. To make it a clean break that can heal properly. 

So he resists the urge to do anything but kiss Hannibal good morning and then beg him to make coffee while he showers. He takes the shower, he drinks the coffee, he gets dressed and stuffs his clothes haphazardly back into his bag, all more or less on autopilot. The only part of the morning he’s really present for is the last bit of it, the part where Hannibal seems to try to kiss him hard enough to last for weeks. He tries to memorize and hold it, already knowing he’ll fail. 

And then he can’t do anything else but say, “Please don’t do anything stupid. Be careful. Don’t get caught. Wait for me.” He promises to call when he arrives. He promises to come back as soon as he possibly can. And he all but flings himself out of the room, out of the hotel, and behind the wheel of his car before he can change his mind.

He doesn’t stop for anything but gas until he’s almost halfway back, for fear he’ll turn around. Even then it’s only hunger that drives him off the road, when he realizes he hasn’t had anything but coffee all day. 

Traffic slows him down but he still makes it back to the cabin by late afternoon. He undoes his seatbelt but doesn’t get out of the car for a few minutes, just watching the afternoon light playing through the trees. Will feels different but the cabin doesn’t; it’s still beautiful here.

He promised to call. He pats his pockets and finds the phone, but hesitates over the keys. Maybe Hannibal’s finally getting some sleep after watching over him all night. If so, he doesn’t want to wake him. He settles for a text: _Back at the cabin, safe and sound. I hope you’re sleeping. I wish I were there. Call me later?_

The words sit on the screen, sterile and intangible, not at all enough, but they’re what there is. He stuffs the phone back in a pocket, grabs his bag, and heads inside to where he can hear the dogs losing their mind at the sound of a car in the driveway.

They’re a tidal wave of giddy happiness to see him and it’s enough to sweep Will along with them for a few minutes, smiling and patting and doling out treats and not worrying about anything else. Once they subside a bit, he calls the pet-sitter to let her know he’s home and she can skip the evening visit to feed and walk them. He flips through the mail and notices it’s mostly for him. He wonders if Molly’s already put in a mail forwarding request for herself and Walter. She moves fast once she gets it into her mind to do something. It’s probably for the best, if she has, but it still stings.

There’s not much to unpack. He throws the clothes in the hamper and sets aside the other items on the dresser. He’d been worried it would be stifling to be back in the house, as bad as the feeling that drove him away from it in the first place, but it’s better now. He’s got something to move toward, not just something to run away from, and that seems like it might make the rest of this easier. 

Trying to keep that in mind, Will stretches out on the bed and picks up his real cell phone, the one he left behind several days ago and has tried not to think about ever since. It’s blinking with unanswered calls and messages. He rubs a hand over his face and sets the messages playing. Might as well get this all over with at once, one good hard punch to the gut instead of dragging it out over days.

**beep**

_Will, it’s Freddie. You never answered my last email so I just thought I’d check in to say hello. Have you thought any further about an interview yet? I’d be happy to come to you to make it a bit more convenient. Maybe we could set up a photo shoot in the house. Let me know._

He hits the delete button on that one with a snort of laughter - Freddie knows perfectly well he’s never saying yes to this, she’s just hoping he’ll let something, anything, slip that she can use in an article. 

**beep**

_Hey, you. Listen, I haven’t had a chance to figure out the lawyer stuff yet but I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay. More or less. I know you didn’t want this to end up this way any more than I did. Anyway. Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll call soon._

He doesn’t delete that one. Maybe keeping Molly’s voice a little longer is just prolonging that gut punch after all, but he can’t erase her as casually as Freddie Lounds. 

**beep**

_Mr. Graham, this is Dr. Marino’s office, calling to confirm your appointment on the 12th at 3 p.m..._

Oops. He tries to remember what that missed appointment was for. There’ve been so many doctor appointments in the past months. He thinks this one was just a routine follow-up and he won’t worry about it, but it sets him to thinking about what else he needs to get sorted out before he leaves for good. As broken and patched-up as he is, it’s probably a good thing he’s running away with a doctor, he thinks with a small smirk. 

There are a couple of other calls, one from the dog rescue that he’ll return tomorrow, one from Walter’s school that he doesn’t feel up to listening to. Nothing from Jack, which either means his little road trip went unnoticed, or that Jack’s perfectly aware of it and biding his time. The sense of constant low level tension that had dissipated for a few blissful days wakes up and stirs somewhere in Will’s stomach, a dread he’d been perfectly content to do without.

He sets the phone aside and lies there for a while, hands behind his head, watching shifting patterns of light and shadow play across the ceiling. 

Eventually he changes into old jeans and a turtleneck, rolling his eyes again at the still-visible suck mark on his neck, gets his toolbox, and heads outside with the dogs tumbling and playing around him. There are a million small projects around the property that need doing, that he’d never quite gotten to. He’ll start on them now, partly in the knowledge that the house will need some work to be sold, mostly to keep himself busy. He’d rather be useful than sit in the house brooding for the next several weeks.

He sets to work in the tool shed first, working on the door that’s never quite closed or latched properly. It’s simple enough work and easy to fall into, to enjoy being mindlessly good at something he can do with his hands that doesn’t require a deep dive into any of the darker places in his mind.

It’s a fine warm evening and as he works, his mind drifts backward and forward in time. The past few days. Days to look forward to. Despite the tension, despite the prospect of going to bed alone tonight and for many nights to come, Will finds himself humming contentedly. 

He works until the dogs grow impatient for dinner and then heads back inside. He feeds the dogs and unearths something resembling dinner from his freezer for himself, and makes a mental note to go shopping tomorrow. He eats on the sofa, curled up with a book, thinking wryly that as much as Molly was a fan of Family Dinner at the Table Without Distractions, Hannibal is almost certainly going to be even more so, and he should enjoy the ability to eat whatever, whenever, and wherever he wants while he’s in this liminal space. 

Later in the evening, when the sky is fully dark and he’s playing fetch with the dogs, the phone in his pocket rings. He tosses the ball down the hallway one more time and watches it go before he picks up the phone. “Hey. Took you long enough.”

“I seem to have been rather tired after all. There’s been an incubus disturbing my sleep the past several nights running.”

Will declines to apologize for that. He drops into the nearest chair to settle in for a long chat and asks, “So where are we tonight? Paris? Moscow? Argentina?”

Hannibal’s voice in his ear is more intimate than mere sound waves travelling such a long distance should be. “I’m right here in our hotel suite in Boston. I’m stretched out on my side of the bed. And you’re here with me.”

And in the time it takes for Will to smile and close his eyes, he is.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you drag this out any longer than necessary I will come up there and drag you back here to Rosario with my own hands, even if I have to personally snap Jack Crawford’s neck to do it.”_
> 
> _Will really, really shouldn’t like it when Hannibal says things like that. And yet._

“It’s not unlike the theremin,” Hannibal muses, and Will wants to protest the comparison but he’s not quite back to forming words yet, his heart still racing. “The lack of tactile feedback poses a challenge but it has its compensation in exquisite sounds.”

 _I don’t usually even like doing this over the phone_ is what Will would say if he were verbal. Or maybe just _shut up about my sounds_ or maybe _I am going to absolutely wreck you next time we’re together._

Instead he just has to wait for his breath to come back and bring his words with it. By the time it does, all he can do is laugh and mumble, “Well, that’s one way to start the morning.”

“A pleasant way, I hope.”

“I’m not complaining. But I have to go into town in a few hours and meet with that awful lawyer and I’m just going to be thinking about this the entire time. I’ll blame you if I fuck up the paperwork. You’re a menace.”

“Don’t make errors on the paperwork. If you drag this out any longer than necessary I will come up there and drag you back here to Rosario with my own hands, even if I have to personally snap Jack Crawford’s neck to do it.”

Will really, really shouldn’t like it when Hannibal says things like that. And yet.

“I’m not dragging anything out and you know it. It’s been a week. None of this gets done in a week. This isn’t even anything important, it’s just--” He waves his hand vaguely in the air even though Hannibal can’t see it, indicating frustration with the process, the lawyers and the attempt to paper over the fact that he doesn’t care about any of it except giving Molly everything and setting her free. “Some stupid paperwork about the house and the bank accounts, I don’t even know. I don’t care.” Mention of the bank accounts jogs his memory. “Which reminds me…”

“You finally opened it?” Hannibal rushes ahead before Will can interrupt. “Don’t protest, please. If you don’t need it, you don’t have to spend it, and you can just bring it back to me. But you should have it available in case something happens. An escape hatch for the unpredictable.”

Will glances over at the envelope where it’s still sitting on his dresser, open now so he can just see the stacks of cash inside, an obscene amount of cash. It’s a reminder of the differences between them still; if Will had to make a fast getaway without a plan, he’d be on the first cheap Greyhound to nowhere. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to keep a small fortune in his bedroom in event of emergency. But there’s some comfort in it. 

He’s not unaware that it’s also a Plan B Hannibal’s given him - a way for him to walk away from Hannibal too, should he change his mind. But he’s not going to change his mind, and they don’t talk about that particular aspect of Hannibal’s gift.

“I wasn’t going to complain. I’ll use it if I need it. It’s the ID I was curious about. You kept it all this time?”

“It was at the cliff house. I took it with me when I left in the hopes that you would live to use it.” Will wonders if there’s a third set of false identification papers, one that Abigail will never use, left at the cliff house and buried in an FBI evidence bag by now.

“I look so young. And I don’t look anything like a Connor.”

He can hear a hint of relief in Hannibal’s voice that they’ve steered away from the treacherous rocks of Abigail’s death and the bloody night that these false IDs were originally intended for. “It just needs to get you into the country. We’ll get you better papers when you’re here, you can pick whatever name you like.”

Because of course Hannibal Lecter has an ID forger sitting around on standby waiting for Will to arrive. Of course he does. Will doesn’t even bother saying anything about it; this is the life he’s chosen, and he’s just going to have to get used to things like that being part of it. 

“I’ll start thinking about it. Listen, I do have to go, the dogs are going to beat down the door. And I need to take a shower because someone called me up first thing in the morning and said incredibly filthy things to me and now I’m in no state to be seen in public.” 

Hannibal sighs and it’s a little growly frustrated thing that Will could listen to forever. “Very well. But I must warn you, once you are here I may not let you out of the house for a week. These fits and starts are growing tiresome.” 

“I’ll be there soon. Have a little patience.” Will pauses for just a moment before adding, “And I have no intention of leaving the house for at least two weeks. You may want to start clearing your schedule. Have a good day, Hannibal.” He ends the call before Hannibal can respond and gets out of bed to go downstairs and feed the dogs. He allows himself a smirk as the phone buzzes almost immediately, and ignores it - if Hannibal has to have the last word, so be it, but Will doesn’t have to give him the satisfaction of responding to it.

He dresses and heads into town and spends the morning with the awful lawyer, who he hated on sight and hasn’t grown to like any better. He’s terribly rude. Hannibal would probably have turned him into croquettes already. He still would, if Will asked him to.

Which he won’t, and that’s not a train of thought that leads anywhere good, so he forces himself to focus on the papers.

The lawyer is annoyed that Will is pretty much signing everything over without a fight, and Will’s not sure if it’s because he’d like the legal fees of a protracted court battle, or if he just thinks Will’s being an idiot. Maybe both. Either way, Will waves away the objections and approves the papers listing assets and bank accounts. Molly had started some of it, and Will’s filled in the rest, and it’s all accurate but none of it means much. None of what Molly ever meant to Will has anything to do with what’s on these papers, and he just wants it all done.

Apparently the next thing to do is to sit around at home and wait to be served with the formal complaint. Will almost has an inappropriate fit of laughter about that, imagining a truthful complaint. _My soon-to-be-ex-husband nearly got me and my son killed in a hare-brained scheme to kill his...whatever...with whom he is now preparing to run off to Argentina to live out some sort of doomed fairytale. And not one of the Disney fairytales. This is all going to be very Grimm-inspired and I would like to save him but I can’t because I need to get my son out of the path of this particular disaster-in-the-making pronto, and also because he has no apparent desire to be saved. Is that enough of a complaint?_

She’ll come up with something a little less lunatic-sounding, he’s sure. He’ll sign off on it, whatever it is. And then, if he understands the process correctly, the rest should pretty much just happen, since he’s not contesting anything. There’s a waiting period and he’ll be gone before it’s up, but if anything that should bolster her case. Abandonment on top of everything else.

So now he just...waits, for the complaint. Waits for the rescue to finish finding homes for the dogs; the first one really hurt but he’s comfortable that she’s going to a good home, and the rest will be easier now he’s done it once.

He hates waiting for things that are out of his control. It makes a restless feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s unsure what to do for the rest of the day, much less the rest of the week.

In the end he runs his errands - groceries, hardware store, bookstore - and heads for home. He’ll put away the groceries and finish replacing the torn window screens he started on yesterday. He’ll keep working with the newer dogs; he feels an urgency now to get them as well-trained as possible as fast as possible, to make them as enticing as possible for new families.

He’s near home when a whim entices him to pull over and stop in a cafe he’s never bothered with before. He orders coffee and is handing over his cash when the barista asks for his name. His tongue trips over itself for a moment and then, almost of its own accord, offers “Connor.” Just out of curiosity. Just to try the taste of it in his mouth. 

He’s expecting to be struck by lightning, but nothing happens. No one says “You don’t look like a Connor” or scolds him for giving a false name. He pays up, and collects his coffee when the girl at the other end of the counter calls out for “Connor”, and takes it over to a comfortable-looking chair.

He traces the letters of the name that is not his on the paper cup for a moment, pondering it, before setting the coffee cup down and reaching for the bag from the bookstore. He pulls out his two purchases - one a very basic Spanish book, one more advanced, in the hopes that his rusty knowledge of French will help him move quickly through the basics.

With nothing to do but wait, Will settles in with his books and Connor’s coffee and begins to study.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will sets the phone to speaker and places it gently on the nightstand, and then he just lies still and listens to Hannibal’s voice spinning him stories in the darkness for a long time. As he’s falling off the edge of consciousness he thinks, with a mixture of more emotions than any one heart should be able to hold, "it’s almost over, now."_

The phone, Will’s real-life phone, rings while he’s in the kitchen chopping up chicken for a new batch of dog food. (The batches are getting smaller and he wonders if this might even be the last one he makes, but decides not to think about that right now.) He briefly ponders his chicken-coated hands, decides there’s no one calling who can’t wait a few minutes, and keeps on chopping.

It’s probably because the dogs are surging around his ankles begging for chicken that they don’t hear or care about a car door shutting, or footsteps on the stairs, so that Will’s taken by surprise and slices deep into his thumb when the doorbell rings. 

He stands there blankly for a minute dripping blood onto the cutting board and then curses, grabs for a wad of paper towels to stanch the blood, and goes to see who’s at the door. 

He’s braced for Jack, or Freddie, or the mailman delivering the certified letter with the divorce papers. He’s not prepared for Molly. And she doesn’t seem particularly prepared either, at least not for Will in his undershirt and boxers, dripping blood all over the floor.

They both take a long beat and then Molly shrugs in bemusement. “I didn’t really know what to do, walking in seemed strange but so did ringing. Sorry. Do you want to maybe deal with that? Are you okay? Are you missing any fingers?”

Will’s pretty sure he’s just staring but he tries to snap out of it. “Um, yeah. No. Sorry. Can you give me five minutes? Come on in. Make yourself, I mean, it’s your house too… Hell. You know. I’ll be back.”

He disappears upstairs, heading first into the bedroom to sweep the second phone, the envelope of cash, Hannibal’s sketch, into the drawer of his nightstand. He’s gotten sloppy, leaving things out. In the process he manages to leave a bloody thumbprint on the sketch and thinks distractedly _that’s entirely appropriate._

Next stop, bathroom. He runs his thumb under the water and lets the sting focus his attention. He’s not sure yet what’s going on here and he needs to stay sharp despite the part of him that cries out against the whole idea of needing to be defensive against Molly, of all people. He presses a clean wad of gauze to the wound and then manages to put on pants without getting too much additional blood anywhere. 

He gives himself a few deep breaths, a moment to catalog grounding sensations - floorboards under his feet, steady aching throb in his hand, indistinct sounds of Molly talking to the dogs downstairs. And then he goes to face what’s left of the life that’s already starting to recede from his view.

He finds her in the kitchen, blood rinsed off the knife, finishing up with the chicken. He’s seen her just like that a thousand times, standing in that particular spot in the kitchen, and his heart clenches a little at the knowledge this is almost certainly the last. He sits on one of the stools, holding his gauze-wrapped thumb up awkwardly, because more awkwardness is exactly what this situation calls for.

“You don’t need to do that, Molly.”

“It’s fine.” She seems grateful for the distraction, something to do with her hands, a reason not to look up. “That looked like a bad one. Do you need stitches? I can drive you to the urgent care.”

He’s not entirely sure about the stitches yet, but he’s pretty sure they could both do without any more time spent in doctor’s offices, together or separately. “I think it’s all right, it’s slowing down now. Rookie mistake - the doorbell startled me.”

“I’m sorry about that, again. I should have called.” She does turn to look at him now and she’s all hurt and hesitation. It’s painful to know he’s directly or indirectly the cause of most of it. “I wasn’t actually going to come here. I had to come in person to finalize some things for closing up the shop. I wasn’t going to tell you, I thought it was easier for both of us. And then it just seemed awful to be here and not tell you. And I have the papers for you and I was going to mail them, but it seemed so impersonal and I was right here, so I just sort of got in the car. And here I am.”

What is there to say to that? He sighs and is about to run a hand through his hair when he realizes his hand is covered in gauze and blood. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m glad you came.” It’s not precisely a lie. It’s good and awful to see her in approximately equal proportions. “Leave the dog food alone, let’s go sit down. You want anything? Water, grain alcohol? It’s a little early, but what the hell.”

That gets him a smile, if a lopsided one. “I’m good. Maybe just some water. I’ll get it, you’ll just bleed all over the glasses. Go elevate your hand. Up over your heart, go on.”

Will heads for the living room and after a moment Molly joins him and hands him a glass. They talk for a few minutes and it’s not terrible. It would be simpler if it were terrible. They talk about Walter, mostly. He’s the easy subject, something they can both love without complications. He’s doing well at his new school, fewer nightmares, he’ll be twelve in a few weeks. Will doesn’t ask what’s on Walter’s birthday wishlist; he’ll be gone by then.

Eventually they run out of that topic and sit quietly for a while. Molly’s idly scratching one of the dogs and Will can see her deciding whether to ask about the missing dogs. He decides to make it easy. “I think I’m going to go away for a while. When everything here is done. Take a boat and head down the coast, a few months at least. They wouldn’t be happy, and I know you can’t take them. I’m finding them homes.” 

Molly bends her head low over the dog in her lap for a long moment and when she comes back up, whatever expression she was hiding is gone, returned to neutral. He’s shut out. “That sounds peaceful. Like it’ll be good for you.”

“I think it is. I need the time to figure out what comes next.”

“You’ll be careful? Out there alone for so long. You’ll check in and let someone know where you are.”

He’s not sure what they’re talking about. Wonders again what she suspects, and will never ask. But he nods. “I’ll be careful. And I’m finding good homes for them. You don’t have to worry about any of us.”

She sighs and stares into her water glass for a minute. “You know it’s not that easy. Signing all the paperwork in the world doesn’t make it that easy.”

Which reminds them both that she brought the papers he’s meant to sign, the formal complaint that starts the ticking legal countdown on the end of their marriage. There’s no way to handle that un-awkwardly so in the end she just hands over the envelope, he promises to read it over and sign it, and there’s nowhere for the conversation to go from there. A little talk about the repairs to the house. A little reminiscing but nothing too painful. It’s almost a nice way to pass the time if it weren’t for the ache in his hand and everywhere else. 

There’s everything to say and nothing that can actually be said, and they seem to have reached an unspoken agreement to just let it be what it is. To sit in their house together one more time, and talk a little, and remember, and then let it go.

He walks her to the door and hugs her, hard, knowing it’s the last they’re going to see of each other unless he and Hannibal get caught and Molly is kind enough or angry enough to visit him in prison or an institution. He watches the car until it vanishes from sight.

Once she’s gone he finds himself wandering the house aimlessly until he’s back in the bedroom, where he crawls under the blankets even though it’s mid-afternoon. He falls into a dreamless sleep, deep for a nap but this is as much defense mechanism as actual tiredness, a way to not think.

When he wakes up it’s well into the evening and he rubs the sleep from his eyes and lies still for a while, staring up at the ceiling. Eventually he goes and checks his hand. The bleeding seems to have stopped and he thinks maybe he can do without stitches. He cleans and bandages the cut and leaves it to heal, just one more scar in his litany. 

He spends the rest of the night not thinking about the paperwork lying on the table in the living room. He takes the dogs out for a long walk, hard enough to wear them and himself out as best he can. He tries to study Spanish but his mind won’t focus on the words. He tries to eat but he’s not really hungry.

Eventually, around midnight, he reaches for the papers and glances over them, barely reading them beyond making sure the essential facts are correct. He signs and shoves them into an envelope and tosses them onto the kitchen counter to be stamped and mailed out.

He goes back upstairs and gets into bed and reaches for the phone. Some of the hard knot of tension in his chest uncoils when he hears Hannibal’s voice.

“Hey. I had a really shit day. I don’t want to talk about it but can you just - distract me? Tell me a story. Tell me about your day. Make it a long one. I don’t feel like talking, I just want to listen.”

Will sets the phone to speaker and places it gently on the nightstand, and then he just lies still and listens to Hannibal’s voice spinning him stories in the darkness for a long time. As he’s falling off the edge of consciousness he thinks, with a mixture of more emotions than any one heart should be able to hold, _it’s almost over, now_.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _On the last day, he wakes up before the alarm, unsure what woke him until he realizes it’s the utter silence. He can’t think of another time he was ever the only living creature in this house. It’s a chilly feeling and as soon as he places it, he knows he’s not going to be getting back to sleep anytime soon._
> 
> _He wakes up and gets ready for the day slowly and methodically, cleaning up after himself more carefully than usual. The bed made, each breakfast dish washed and put back in its assigned place. He’s not sure how long it will be until someone comes along but he doesn’t want them to find a mess when they do._

On the last day, he wakes up before the alarm, unsure what woke him until he realizes it’s the utter silence. He can’t think of another time he was ever the only living creature in this house. It’s a chilly feeling and as soon as he places it, he knows he’s not going to be getting back to sleep anytime soon. 

He wakes up and gets ready for the day slowly and methodically, cleaning up after himself more carefully than usual. The bed made, each breakfast dish washed and put back in its assigned place. He’s not sure how long it will be until someone comes along but he doesn’t want them to find a mess when they do. 

Showered and dressed in comfortable clothes for the series of long plane trips he has ahead of him, Will sits down to write letters. He’s put this off as long as he can.

_I’m sorry I can’t stay to see the paperwork through but staying here has gotten too difficult. I think everything is taken care of now but if there are any questions or anything left unresolved, everything is yours and Walter’s. The lawyer knows that and he shouldn’t give you any trouble, but show him this if you need to. I’m taking everything I need with me. I’ll be out of touch, but I’ll think of you both. Be happy, Molly. It’s all I want for you._

It’s not enough, but nothing would be. It will do. He doesn’t write to Walter, doesn’t want to stir up anything when he gets the impression Walter’s already starting to forget. He’s young, he mends more easily, it may be best to let him be.

He turns to the letter he’ll send to Alana, courtesy of Margot since the two of them seem to prefer to stay out of the country and hard to find. It will take some time to make it through whatever layers of gatekeepers protect the Verger-Blooms’ location, but he’s sure it will get to them eventually. Her position atop the Verger empire means Margot can’t ever disappear entirely.

_I’m going away for a while. I’m sorry I couldn’t see you again before I went. You can come back whenever you want. You’ll be safe now. If you can, please try to get Jack to let sleeping dogs lie. Everyone’s going to be safer and happier if he finds somewhere else to spend his attention. I know it’s a lot to ask but it’s for the best. When you come back, if you want, please get in touch with my neighbor Kathy, contact information enclosed. She’s taken in a few of my strays but I told her I thought you might come calling for Winston. He always liked you and Applesauce. I think he would make an excellent Verger-Bloom if you’ll have him._

He considers leaving a note for Jack but there’s no point, really. Jack’s going to come looking, or he’s not, whatever Will might say now. Their best bet is probably to just lay low and keep out of sight until Jack retires. Whoever comes after him won’t be as focused on them, won’t take it as a personal affront. It’s the best Will can hope for at the moment.

He finishes packing: one small checked bag, a carry-on to get him through the long series of flights and layovers. He’s not taking much; what he needs is already waiting for him. 

He tucks Will Graham’s identification away in a pocket of the suitcase. It may come in handy again someday. Connor’s ID and boarding passes slide into his pocket neatly. A drive to Bangor, a short flight to Atlanta, a long layover, a red-eye to Buenos Aires where Hannibal will pick up him up for the drive to Rosario. 

Almost a full twenty-four hours’ travel and it will be exhausting but it still seems too easy, after so long. He still thinks something is going to go wrong. He digs through the carry-on for his medication and dry-swallows an Ativan to keep from losing his mind before he even leaves the house. 

It’s too early to leave but everything’s done and he can’t sit still. He walks through the house one more time, making sure everything is put away and locked up and kept safe for Molly. He closes the front door carefully and stands out on the porch, looking out over the trees. He tucks the letters into the mailbox for pickup. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials the only number in its memory.

“Hey. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Will. Is everything all right? I thought you’d be too busy to call this morning.” Hannibal sounds sleepy even though it’s later in Argentina. It must be a terribly lazy life he’s leading. A lazy life sounds nice; Will wouldn’t mind some laziness for a while.

“I’m packed and I’m standing on my front porch getting ready to lock up my house and I thought I’d better give you one more chance to back out. Tell me now if you don’t want me to get on the plane.”

“Did you really believe I might tell you not to come?”

Will’s anxious, excited, a bundle of nerves that need calming. “Not really, but I’d like to hear it from you. This might still all be a horrible mistake. Last chance to call it off.”

The chuckle on the phone line helps dissipate some of his tension. “I am eagerly awaiting all the horrible mistakes we can make together. Lock the door and throw away the key and get going. I will be extremely displeased if you miss your flight.”

“God forbid you be displeased.” Will doesn’t realize he’s smiling now until he hears it in his own voice, the anxious whirl in his stomach starting to calm. “Can’t have that. Okay, I’m leaving now.” He lets the next words roll around in his head for a moment before he says them. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And the day after that, and the one after that. If you can refrain from throwing us both over the first cliff you find.”

Will toys with the notion of making a new rule that Hannibal is not allowed to refer to their impromptu cliff dive more than once a week, but keeps it to himself. He has a feeling it’s going to be a bit harder to make and enforce rules once he’s in Hannibal’s domain. Best to save up his influence for the rules he really does need to make. Besides, he’s pretty sure that “you tried to cut open my skull and eat my brain while I was still using it” still trumps “cliff dive” if they’re really going to get into who did what to who.

They are going to be such a disaster together. He can't remember ever wanting anything more in his life than he wants that disaster, tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, a whole string of days stretching into infinity, the whole wonderful catastrophe that the two of them are going to be. 

He’s ready to leave.

Will ends the call and finds himself feeling suddenly light, almost giddy, the morning’s weight of anxiety at least temporarily gone. It’s some combination of psychopharmacology and Hannibal’s effect on him and simply being at the end, finally, of a wait that felt like forever. He’ll take it, whatever the cause is.

He locks the door and slips the key under the loose brick where Molly will know to look for it if she’s the next one to come to the house. He picks up his bags and walks down the steps quickly, not looking back to the empty and shuttered place where he used to live, that is no longer his home.

He drives to Bangor, a long drive with the windows down and Abigail in the passenger’s seat beaming at him. He finds an unsavory looking neighborhood in which to leave the car, doors unlocked, window cracked. Someone will find it and claim it for their own, or take it apart, he doesn’t care as long as it vanishes as effectively as the rest of Will Graham is about to. He walks briskly away and several blocks later, flags a taxi to take him the rest of the way to the airport.

The security line is the worst part of the whole thing. He’s certain at any moment someone is going to flag him somehow. They’ll spot the false ID, or someone will recognize him despite the beard and his best attempts to be inconspicuous, or he’ll raise attention when he opts for the pat-down instead of the scanner due to the large quantities of metal holding his bones together that he suspects would light up the scanner like a Christmas tree.

He’s poised for disaster but it passes him by, luck or false bravado carrying him through security without a screw-up until he emerges on the other side in the hustle and anonymity of a busy airport. From there, the rest is simple. He’s flown enough for work that he can do airports in his sleep and flying itself no longer makes him nervous. He finds his gate and settles in, fires off a text to let Hannibal know he’s through security, and settles in to wait. 

It’s tempting to pace the terminal but not a good way to lay low, so he buys a newspaper and flips through it idly. He resists the urge to leaf through Tattle Crime but is relieved to know that if he’s in there at all, it’s at least not on the front page. Not that he really thinks Freddie Lounds is ever going to let it go, but at this point he’ll settle for being fine-print-story-on-page-12 news.

Eventually the plane boards and takes off, and Will Graham’s life falls away with an effortlessness that belies how hard it was to reach this moment of flight. He watches out the window until the plane overcomes gravity, until the ground is well out of sight and his view is all horizon and possibility, before he flips the window shade shut and brushes up on his Spanish for the rest of that first flight.

There’s a long layover in Atlanta, hours to kill in the Purgatory of the airport terminal. He occupies himself watching people come and go and seeing what he can intuit about them from these brief slices of their lives passing before him. It’s a nice change, using his skills to study someone’s life, and not their death. Will hasn’t given much thought to what he’s going to do with himself in Argentina - hasn’t really let himself believe he’d ever get there - but he wonders if there might be some way to turn his abilities to some less bloody end. Some way to help people that doesn’t require those people to die before he can do them any good. He files the thought away for consideration.

Eventually it’s time for the long, late flight to Buenos Aires. He waits, again, for the hammer to fall but it doesn’t. No one pulls him out of line or looks at him suspiciously. They board and in the last few moments before the admonishment to turn off cell phones, he sends a text: _I’m on my way. Sleep well. I’ll be home soon._

The plane lifts off and he watches again as the lights from the ground disappear rapidly. He does his best to get some sleep on the flight but it’s fitful and he ends up passing most of the time by the river in his head, with Abigail. Her primary concern appears to be how soon they can get a dog, and it occurs to Will, not for the first time, that Abigail's presence in his mind is a bit more revealing than he’s strictly comfortable with. 

Probably he should be feeling guiltier, sorrier, remorseful, something. And he imagines he will, sooner or later, on the bad days. He’s not young enough or love-blinded enough to think there won’t be bad days. But at the moment he can’t seem to summon any of those feelings. He just wants to get through customs without a hitch. He wants Hannibal. He wants a dog, eventually. Probably two dogs. And he wants to sleep. 

There’s only one of those he can do anything about just then, so he keeps shifting in search of comfort and eventually manages to string together a few hours of mostly uninterrupted dozing.

Will wakes up with daylight beginning to stream in through the airplane windows, to the crackly indistinct sounds of the pilot making announcements. By the time he’s awake enough to process words he’s already missed the English version of the announcement and they’re on to the Spanish version, and so far he reads Spanish much better than he hears it. But he picks up a few key words and the sense of increased activity in the cabin, flight attendants bustling through picking up trash, people stretching their legs in the aisles after a long uncomfortable night of being cramped into the airplane seats.

He sits up and groans as his shoulder protests, and starts to put himself in order. He reaches for his carry-on and packs back into it the items he’d taken out during flight, books and the case for his glasses and a few other odds and ends. He double-checks his customs paperwork and his baggage claim ticket. 

Everything’s in order. He’s as ready as he’s going to be. He watches through the window as the ground below grows more distinct by the second. The plane tilts and turns in its descent, enough for the passengers to feel it. There’s a brief moment like being suspended weightless at the top of a rollercoaster. He closes his eyes and lets the familiar sensation hold him, tipping him slightly forward as the plane descends into Buenos Aires, down to where Hannibal will be waiting for him.

Heading toward the rest of his life as fast as gravity will take him, Will Graham falls one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And: scene. We’re done. For now. Stay with me, darlings, I think I need to know what happens next here, and I’ll be back to tell you that story once I know more about what it is. (It won't be too long. I already know how the next bit starts and ends, it's just. You know. Everything in the middle that's a bit blurry.)
> 
> Until then, your comments and Tumblr visits are always welcome, I will post some one offs here and there, and I am more delighted than I can possibly tell you at how lovely you have all been to me while I wrote all of this shipper trash disaster.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me over at [damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com)!
> 
> (Your comments give me life. You are the greatest, readers o' mine, and I would kudo you each right back if I could.)


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